


Under Pressure

by Macx



Series: Firewall [7]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychic Bond, Series, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macx/pseuds/Macx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Bond is the field agent, Q his handler and partner. Bond gets injured on a regular basis, Q is safe and sound at MI6.</p><p>But not any more. Not when someone at MI6 has just shot the quartermaster and Bond is in the middle of a mission, about to defuse a dirty bomb. Q won't LET something like bleeding in a deserted tunnel stop him from handling the mission. Because at 4 a.m there is no one else...</p><p>Bond really has to talk to him about his priorities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Fangirl1138 for this. She said she had a scene in mind I might want to consider writing: Q is injured and doesn’t tell Bond while on assignment.
> 
> This is what I made of the whole idea… Not sure it’s what she had in mind, but my brain came up with the scenario and wouldn’t let me write it any other way.

They lost Riley on a Tuesday.

Q remembered because it was his first day back after a long weekend. It had been his first vacation time since the enforced two-day leave after Christmas. Mallory had told him in no uncertain words that he should take the four days, as well as take Bond, and just go. Go away. Do something other than work. Q had been slightly offended, but in the end he had done as ordered.

He had enjoyed those four days. They had packed their bags and spent three of them in the warmth of a southern climate. Late summer, tourists sparse, Tenerife had been a change from London. Q might not be the kind of person to bake in the sun at the beach all day long, but he enjoyed warmth, too. And he enjoyed seeing his partner out of the suit, in jeans and t-shirts or in swim shorts.

Yes, James had drawn looks from the female population. Yes, even some men had looked. And no, Q felt not a single tickle of jealousy. The firm knowledge of what they were to each other was always there. He had no doubts, no fears.

It was nice.

And the evenings were spent enjoying the setting sun, a glass of wine, cheese and bread and olives, and themselves. Especially themselves.

Q felt a tingle of happiness at those memories.

He came back to his department, already aware of what had happened in his absence. Being a technopath had him automatically log into the MI6 server network and he had known what emails awaited him.

The note from M had been top priority.

Riley had been a handler. She had been assigned to several field agents in Australia and even once had had the pleasure of handling a Double-Oh when 008 had been on a mission in the country.

Now she had been involved in a car crash.

The paramedics had declared her DOA. A medic at the local hospital had confirmed that there had been nothing left for anyone to do to help. Her neck had been broken.

Q had never met Riley, but every loss was still painful. She had been employed by his predecessor and there had been talk about her moving back to London for a change of jobs. Riley had been close to fifty, married, two children.

The atmosphere in Q branch was muted. People were milling around, slightly in shock at the loss. Agents were lost sometimes; mostly through a bullet, a knife or a staged accident. Handlers were on the safer end of an operation.

Q gave everyone the time necessary.

 

*

 

Bond went on an assignment the very same day. It was simple reconnaissance. A request for a joint operation with the CIA. Well, not a request, more like MI6 bullying into something the Americans wanted no one else included in.

Well, too bad.

He accepted his equipment with a somber expression. While death was nothing new to a Double-Oh or any other field agent, he understood the time to grief.

Q gave him a little smile when he checked his gun. Personalized, like always. The tracker was added, then his watch.

“Have a good flight.”

He got a quirked smile in return. “I always do.”

 

* * *

 

It was early in the morning with the mist still clinging to the ground and the sun not yet strong enough to pierce through the cloud cover. Bond stood in front of the security fence, looking at the ruins shrouded in the damp fog.

A week had gone by since the Japanese research facility had been destroyed and by now construction equipment was lining the driveway up to what had once been the main entrance. The moment the officials gave the go, this ruin would be torn down. It had been declared highly unstable and dangerous, and multiple signs had been put up.

No one had known that this building had housed a top secret facility. And no one knew what had happened here, aside from a sudden explosion that had erased five lives, among them two renowned British scientists who had been working for MI6. The other three had been US citizens, which had brought the CIA into the game.

The fence was locked by a rather primitive combination lock, but Bond had no intention of breaking it. He was expected. The guard was a rough-hewn, tall man with light brown hair and watery eyes. He nodded at Bond and unlocked the fence.

"Keep on the designated tracks," he told him, his voice heavily accented. "This is a dangerous ruin."

Up close the ruin looked even more impressive than from afar. It had the look of a movie set for a horror film, just waiting for someone to shout 'action' and monsters to lurch toward the hero or heroine. Walking into the once proud building, Bond stepped over charred wooden beams, molten plastic, fallen roof sections, always cautious not to stray too far from the route declared safe.

A labyrinth of more debris lay ahead of him and he peered into the murky twilight. Getting out a high power flash light he searched on.

“Whoever destroyed the lab, he was thorough,” he said softly.

“And knew where to place the bombs,” Q answered.

Bond had to agree. The building had gone up in a brilliant explosion of flames and debris, killing five people in the furnace fire and destroying everything within a short period of time. The fire fighters had not been able to save anything. This had once been a high-tech place of futuristic designs in glass and steel. Now it was a heap of debris.

He stepped deeper inside, ducking his head to avoid fallen ceiling panels, charred and split open from the heat. Some of the walls around him had collapsed, partitions blackened, windows blasted out. Nothing left at all.

Bond kicked lightly against some charred wood and it cracked.

“Nothing here at all.”

“What did you expect? Neon signs?” Q asked.

He smiled wryly. “Maybe. One can always hope. What about the main computer system? Any news about possible recovery?”

“Burned to a crisp. At least according to CIA reports. You know how far you can trust those.”

He smirked at the remark. “Keep digging.”

Taking a last look around, Bond left.

 

* * *

 

One didn’t become quartermaster at MI6 just for being a good hacker; brilliant, in case of the young man who had become the new quartermaster, actually. Everyone at Q branch was brilliant in their own way. They had specialized fields where they excelled, where they were the best there was this side of the globe, maybe even across the globe. MI6’s eyes were everywhere and they had their fingers in a lot of institutions, grooming their agents and their specialists.

Q had caught their attention early on. He had been recruited and given what he needed to stay sane, despite the fact that they needed him in a field where a technopath with his failing control was prone to catastrophically explode one day.

M had seen to it that he received what help there was, that he had himself under firm control, that he could carefully test the waters when it came to the MI6 servers.

Rising to the position of quartermaster, the head of the whole Q branch, answering only to M, hadn’t come out of the blue.

Q might look the perfect nerd, the geek in geek’s clothing, but he wasn’t. He had a quiet competence, a core of steel. He had undergone rigorous training, had been evaluated again and again. He had been pushed to his limits and he had weathered everything.

He didn’t bend. He didn’t break. He pushed back and he succeeded. Q was like a dog with a bone when it came to a project. He went at it with everything.

He could lead Q branch. He had their respect. His orders were followed.

He could work with field agents, especially Double-Ohs, who were notorious in their ways. Getting a Double-Oh to listen to everything one said and then follow orders was sometimes like fighting windmills.

But they listened to him. They brought back the equipment. They worked with him. He had their respect.

Until 007.

Q had shown just what he was made of when James Bond had reappeared from the dead. He had a backbone. He was no-nonsense when it came to this particular Double-Oh. He didn’t back down and he didn’t even raise his voice. Calm, level-headed, sure in his directions, he was there, in Bond’s ear.

He faced the prowling predator, not the least bit unnerved, actually more annoyed most of the time, and he won Bond’s respect.

It was hard to impress a man like him in these days, but Q had managed it.

It was the beginning of the most unusual partnership Q branch had ever witnessed. And they watched closely.

Very closely.

Even before their partnership had taken on a very different tone, before the bond had been established between the dark preternatural Bond was and the crippled technopath Q had been, the agent had watched his quartermaster.

Not for failures.

Not to see weaknesses.

Just watched him.

Q was a fascinating object for quiet observation. He might not have understood just why he kept drifting back to Q branch then, but now Bond knew. It had been the beginning. It had been his rebirth.

Yes, Q still had spots. Some. Faintly. He was young, but not too young to be leader of his own branch. He was genius level, but he wasn’t eccentric or bordering on insane. He was the center of Q branch, working with a speed unrivalled by others, and his underlings deferred to him.

Yes, fascinating.

The strength was there, under so many layers. The top layer consisted of clothes Bond had found ridiculously cliché at the time, but that was Q. He threw you off, even by the way he dressed.

Slender but unbreakable. A will of iron.

The phoenix had hungered for him in the black recesses of Bond’s mind, unable to understand the fascination, drawn to that bright mind. Magnetic. Electric. All of them no words that truly described what it had felt like.

Their encounters had been strung with tension before, the sharp wit, the aggravation and exasperation masking an ever-developing avalanche that had uprooted all of Bond’s world. He had been swept away by the force and his preternatural side had soared with the challenge.

When everything boiled down to the inevitable release, it had floored him. He had never felt this, never wanted someone this much. Not physically. It was so much more than carnal pleasure. It had been release, freedom, the brittle chains suddenly broken, and he was free.

Not in death.

In life.

Q had been right back then.

The phoenix was there, vicious in its primal nature, untamable and ferocious, but it calmed under Q’s balancing influence. He didn’t control it, just soothed the fiery nature within the mantle of ice.

And it gave Q the so badly needed anchor to heal his own fractured mind, to reverse the damage done to his abilities because he had no control over them either.

Q was an asset. MI6 used assets to their advantage.

He understood that perfectly well.

 

 

It was curious, Q mused in a rather detached way. They sent agents all over the world to stop terrorist plots, steal data, eliminate one threat or another. His own Double-Oh had seen almost every country in this world already, sometimes only passing through one, had been there to see governments rise and fall and rise again from the ashes.

And in the end it had turned out that sometimes the threat was closest to home; that the perp had been in their midst.

One of his team.

Q took it quite personally.

He hadn’t known Leslie Collins in more than a professional way. He was a programmer for Q branch and had transferred to the IT department just recently. The old Q, his predecessor, had hired the man and Q, as the new head of the department, had simply reviewed the personnel files and talked to each of his team to assess who and what they were. He had no personal links to any of them. Yes, he had followed invitations for drinks and even a birthday party at a close-by pub, but nothing more.

Collins hadn’t stood out among the underlings. With his transfer, Q hadn’t lost an irreplaceable employee. The man had been replaced from within MI6 and that was that.

Now he had committed treason.

And he had attacked his former boss.

Q hadn’t seen that coming either.

Well, okay, so he had had his back turned to the man, but he hadn’t expected Collins to shoot him with one of the prototypes he must have taken from Q branch.

Q made a mental note to change the access to those prototypes. It wouldn’t do for just anyone to be able to grab them.

A sharp stab had him curl in on himself.

Bullet wounds hurt!

Yes, as handler of James Bond he knew that, but he had never personally experienced it. Quartermasters didn’t get shot. None of his predecessors ever had been, though they had been out in the field to deliver tech or equipment. There hadn’t been so much as a bruise on any of those who had come before him.

Now he had been shot.

Within a year of heading this department.

Q would have sighed if it didn’t hurt so badly. This had to be a new record.

Curious how the wound didn’t really hurt as much as he had expected it would. Maybe he was still within that infamous golden hour.

And where was Collins?

The man had simply left him here.

What was his plan? Why had he shot Q and not just locked him up somewhere? Did he want to steal more information? Or equipment?

Part of Q startled awake and reminded him that while he might be down and bleeding, he wasn’t out for the count. He was a technopath and MI6’s network was his second home. Well, aside from his own, much smaller home network.

So he reached out and slid into the well-known world of the internal network, easily navigating toward his HUD. He found himself standing in a room that looked almost like his main work station at Q branch, simply a lot more empty. No underlings, no other desks. Just rectangles seemingly floating around him, held in place by invisible forces. There were six at the moment.

From here it was even more child’s play. In here, this electronic world, he wasn’t injured. He felt no pain. He was an electronic representation of himself, sans injuries.

Q set to work.

He found Collins in the control room. The cameras showed him the man quite clearly and he was at Q’s station, of all places. Q was slightly affronted. Three screens showed him his shooter from different angles.

He moved closer and technopathically looked over Collins’s shoulder, affront rising. The man was getting ready to transmit sensitive data!

Alone, in the middle of the night, with no one around but the head of the department, Collins had apparently seen his best chances to commit treason on such a grand scale. Q logged himself into his own station to see what the man was doing. Two more screens lit up and he saw every command keyed into the pad.

Collins was collecting data on weapons technology, access codes to other servers, MI6 accounts used abroad for agents, and the like. He wasn’t after the names of the operatives, only the funds. Monetary and technological.

Curious.

But worth something, Q knew. There were millions in European and US currency on those accounts and Collins was getting ready to clean them out. Whoever he had gotten the passwords from, Q had no idea. That would have to be determined. Right now he had to stop this and he knew he could. No one else would be able to, but as a technopath he was the system right now and the network was his to control.

 

tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

There was a reason why Q had been working late. The reason’s name was James Bond and he was currently on the other side of the world, waiting for a bunch of terrorists to make their move.

It figured they would make that move now.

Q caught the incoming call and redirected it away from Collins’s attention. The man might not even have noticed it anyway. He was too busy stealing funds.

A new screen appeared inside the HUD like out of nowhere.

::007:: Q acknowledged the call while creating a mirror of the first account Collins was hacking into.

“Busy night, Q?” Bond asked lightly.

::You could say that::

It was so easy to multi-task within the HUD, it should be scary. He didn’t have to think and then type. He simply… thought. Of course he had to put his thoughts into the specific commands for a network to understand, but as a technopath that came naturally.

The first mirror account came into existence. Fifteen million Euro.

He started with the second account. Five million pounds.

::How can I help you, 007?::

“Just wanted to let you know I’m moving.”

Q sought out the tracking signal of his agent and found traffic cameras close by. He rooted through the images and finally had the familiar face on a screen.

::I see you. Anything interesting happening?::

More accounts came into existence, looking very real and very ripe for plundering. Collins wasn’t even aware what was going on. Q worked with a speed that was unrivalled by a mere programmer. Technopathy wasn’t hindered by the slower processing power of a human brain.

“Looks like they are about ready to make do on their threats. The bomb is in the car and they’re rolling.”

::Do you require assistance?::

“Just an eye in the sky.”

Q smiled, done with the last mirror account. He called up a list of satellites at his disposal and chose a military one. One of the screens displayed the surveillance from the satellite’s cameras.

::That I can do::

While Bond followed the terrorist group through the streets of Tokyo to their intended target, Collins was downloading weapons specs and other equipment data.

Q frowned and raced along a connection to check on who was still in the building. To his dismay he found that not only had Collins shot him, he had also shot two guards. He must have brought in another weapon or managed to disarm a guard, which was unlikely. Collins was no larger than Q and he had no training in that area. While Q had taken lessons, he doubted he could disarm an MI6 guard.

It was time to get into contact with M and Tanner, let them know what was happening. They would have to move carefully.

Q sent a text message to each man, detailing what was currently going on, and attaching a secure link that would let them into the surveillance system without Collins getting an idea of what was going on.

It didn’t even take a minute for M to call him back. Part of him was busy rooting through computer uplinks, another part answered the call.

“Where are you?” the head of MI6 demanded.

::In the system, heading off Collins’ attempts of transferring fifty million pounds in different currencies to an untraceable account::

“And where are you physically?”

Q smiled a little to himself as he continued his interference. ::Lab 5::

Bond chose that moment to come back on-line as well. “Q? You there?”

He sounded breathless.

::Bond’s calling:: was all Q said to M, then disconnected the call. ::Yes, 007:: he answered the agent’s demand.

The next minutes were a flurry of activity and Q felt a slight strain. He was still trying to keep track of what Collins was doing, but most of his attention was now with his agent, who needed his assistance. It didn’t help that M and Tanner had deployed help and that this help was trying to break into headquarters. Or that M was incessantly ringing him.

He finally picked up while guiding Bond through a maze of streets in pursuit of what the Double-Oh believed was a dirty bomb.

Fun.

“Where the bloody hell are you?!” M thundered.

::Like I said: Lab 5. And I am busy handling 007 who is after a dirty bomb::

There was a brief moment of silence, then a colorful curse.

::Collins is still in the main control room, but he will be done downloading the specs in ten more minutes::

“What about the accounts?”

::All fake. He hasn’t received a single penny. According to his logs he has, though:: Q knew he sounded just a little smug.

Bond cursed and threw his car around and Q’s concentration was back with his agent. He calmly scanned satellite images, gave the agent a few helpful hints, and kept track of the terrorist car.

There was a wave of vertigo and Q blinked, the HUD shuddering around him. Like from a distance he felt something come apart a little more.

Oh… damn! coursed through him.

His body was losing blood and he wasn’t receiving medical attention. What he felt was his separation from his physical form, just before his mind might merge with the network and be purged.

Not good. So not good.

The HUD was flashing warnings at him, there was a voice demanding his attention, and he wondered what had happened.

“Q!”

He was drawn back to Bond. ::Yes?::

“I said I needed some help here!” 007 snarled harshly.

There was an undercurrent note of stress to his voice and he was breathing heavily.

Q blinked again, feeling a little light-headed. Bond had the bomb right in front of him and he needed help deciding if they could diffuse it.

He steadied himself, leaving Collins to the agents currently swarming MI6.

The bomb wasn’t far beyond amateurish, which made it a very dangerous project to take on, but they had to stop the timer.

“Ideas?” the Double-Oh demanded.

::Let me check references:: he answered as calmly and levelly as he always did.

Q called up a dozen or more specs of similar bombs, built by similar groups. They usually followed plans one of their kind had drawn up and those bombs were easily taken care of.

::The green wire, then the red-white one::

There was no inquiry as to whether Q was sure. Bond simply cut the wires. The display went dark with two more minutes to go.

Plenty of time.

The quartermaster had a moment of dizziness and the HUD flickered. On another line M was barking demands. Tanner was giving orders to the response team and the agents assisting them. There were the voices of a dozen men in MI6, swarming the underground bunker, hunting Collins, looking for Q.

And Q felt strangely detached.

Oh wow…

He raised his hands, looking at them as if he saw them for the very first time.

So weird.

“Q!”

Bond’s voice was strong and filtering through the confusion, cutting into his mind like a knife.

::007:: he answered automatically.

“What the hell is going on?!”

::Did you get rid of the bomb?::

There was a hiss that wasn’t static; it was more angry, more annoyed. Aggravated. And worried.

Worried?

“Yes, the bomb is taken care of. What’s going on at home?”

::We have a small situation. It’s under control::

He caught the back end of an order from Tanner to take down Collins but not to kill him if possible. He saw the advance on the Q branch offices. Collins was by now frantically trying to find a way out. He hadn’t figured on getting caught this easily.

“Q! Listen to me!”

Q had to steady himself. He didn’t feel so good.

“Get out of the HUD!” Bond ordered.

How did his agent know?

There was a babble of more voices, some ordering Collins to stand down, others calling for the medical response team. He thought he heard them talk about blood.

::I’m fine:: he said absently.

“No, you’re not! Get out. NOW!::

The voice was razor sharp, cutting into his brain, jerking him out of his zone. He stepped away from the HUD. ::007?:: he stammered.

“You’re okay. You’re fine. Everything you did worked out.”

Bond’s voice sounded incredibly intense. Rough. Serrated edges and sharp lines. Q was drawn to that voice like it was his only beacon in the world. He clung to it, aware that this man was his anchor, his safety.

He reached for the darkness that was the phoenix, even though he knew his partner wasn’t even in the same country. Still, he was so close. Q had never thought about where their limits might be.

::I… don’t feel so good:: he breathed.

“Q, concentrate! Leave the network. Go back.”

::James…::

It had slipped out. He never called Bond by his first name over the comms. Never.

And then his whole world lurched. He was thrown away from the HUD and there was a ripping sensation as he was caught and neatly pushed back into his own mind.

He had no concept of up or down any more, he simply screamed, curling in on himself. Then the world around him seemed to rush by at the speed of light, a dizzying sensation that made him want to throw up. He was barely aware of the voice calling his name, the hands holding him down.

The darkness was there, strong and unwavering, almost furious. Blue eyes like chips of ice burned inside; he knew them intimately. Q had a moment to appreciate the deadly beauty, then reality slammed into his head.

Painfully.

And then he passed out.

 

* * *

 

Gareth Mallory had known what he was getting himself into when he had accepted the post as the new head of MI6. He had known the hornets’ nest this institution was on the best of days, especially with the infamous Double-Oh section.

What he hadn’t known was the depth of the secrets kept at MI6. About the true identity of 007; about what their new quartermaster was.

The briefing had been… startling. Mallory, like most of humankind, had met a few preternaturals or supernaturals. They kept to themselves in the case of werewolves and other shapeshifters, or vampires and the like. Supernaturals were the creatures of fairy tales and lore. Preternaturals were harder to identify and very diverse; they were humans with an edge, though their abilities usually ranked low on the danger scale.

But not Bond.

Of course not Bond!

He had to be a phoenix, a creature so rare no one knew a lot about them. A dark thing that consumed itself and had no equal. Some argued that this kind of creature wasn’t preternatural any more, that it had to be classified as a supernatural being, but the phoenix’s powers didn’t manifest as anything more than coming back to life. No shape changing, no suddenly going up in flames, no magical properties.

Back then Mallory had simply smiled grimly and nodded. Typical.

Things had started with a bang and hadn’t really died down.

007 made sure of that. He kept work interesting, Mallory mused. Especially since with the position of M had come the information as to what James Bond really was. A preternatural. A phoenix.

Mallory knew little of preternaturals, but the briefing from Tanner had given him a very good insight. Bond was highly dangerous, very lethal, but also effective and one of the best field agents out there. Well, actually, he was the best. There was no comparison to the others. That he was now bonded to their head of Q branch, who happened to be a fully functional technopath in possession of all his faculties – compared to the gibbering wrecks Mallory knew most technopathically able humans to be – was icing on the cake.

Well, not really icing. There was nothing nice and sweet about this pairing. There had never been anything nice and sweet about James Bond. Q, for all his youth, was a capable department head. That he was now connected to Bond on such an intimate level was just… something Mallory had to get used to.

What he had gotten out of it was a very dangerous pair, a very effective killer with a cool, level-headed and genius-level handler.

He was proven just how effective they worked when he got the call in the middle of the night, right from Q, with a red alert about an intruder in Q branch, stealing files and funds.

Q, who had been working late.

Q, who had been shot and was still apprehending the white collar thief in his very own way.

Q, who was simultaneously handling his agent, who was defusing a dirty bomb.

Mallory was still trying to wrap his mind around the latter two facts as he watched the medical response team work on the too still figure.

Tanner walked up to him, looking rumpled and like he had just fallen out of bed. Mallory knew he didn’t look any better. Neither man wore a suit or anything even remotely office-related. Neither man cared.

Bill cursed colorfully when he discovered the bloodied form of their quartermaster, the medical team working fast, efficiently, trying to save the man who had disregarded all personal danger to keep Collins from hacking the system.

A gurney was rolled past them and Q quickly lifted onto it. Then he was rushed to Medical, one of the medics standing on the metal rungs of the gurney and pumping air into a quickly inserted tube. Mallory glimpsed him scramble when another called out cardiac arrest, then the doors shut after them.

 

 

In his hotel room Bond stood like he was rooted to the spot, eyes burning with a fire that wasn’t human. Deep inside the creature that was born of nightmares and violence screamed out its pain.

He felt something inside him ready to tear.

It was like a small death, like losing himself and then again, not.

 

 

“We’ve got him back!”

Medical personnel swarmed around the table MI6’s quartermaster lay on, covered in his own blood, deathly pale and breathing only because he was intubated and had help.

 

 

He wasn’t really aware of anything. Bond knew where he was, what had happened, but not consciously.

He was staring at nothing and feeling everything.

Q.

The phoenix was still screaming, trying to get free, trying to take over and get him to relinquish control.

Q.

He finally fought back with all he had, reality snapping into sharp focus, and Bond became aware of his harsh breathing, of his fingers digging into the wall like he was trying to gauge grooves into it.

Home. He had to get home.

The creature inside him snarled angrily.

Like a rubber band the connection, the psychic link, snapped back.

He gasped.

“Q!”

The cell phone rang insistently and Bond glanced at it.

Unknown number.

 

 

All that remained of what had happened inside this section of the tunnel was a mass of wrappers, plastic packaging and left behind equipment littering the ground around a large blood stain.

“I want the security footage,” M said tonelessly, though his words were sharp. “I want to know what happened here. How he got in. How he knew his way into the system. And patch Bond through to me. I don’t need a Double-Oh tearing apart a country to get home. We’ll retrieve him right away.”

Tanner nodded curtly, already on the phone.

 

tbc...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. This part was ready to be posted, but the wifi of the hotel I stayed for a business trip refused to let me log in to any sites that required a login. Thanks for your patience! Part four ASAP!

It had taken Bond less than fifteen hours to get home. He had gotten aboard the next available flight from Japan to England, which had left just hours after he had defused the dirty bomb. He was completely exhausted, hadn’t slept in almost two days, he was wired from adrenaline – and he didn’t care.

Unshaven, eyes burning with an intensity that had people get out of his way, he walked into Medical with a single-mindedness that startled even Abbey Troy, the head nurse, who had dealt with him before.

“007.”

Dr. Joe Adler stepped around the desk, holding the cold, intense eyes, burning with something frightening.

“Where is he?”

Adler held that gaze, refusing to back down. “Q came out of surgery six hours ago and is still under observation in ICU. He’s asleep, Bond.”

“Where?” the phoenix asked icily.

Adler motioned at him to follow and Bond did.

Bond almost felt the presence of his quartermaster, his perfect balance. It was no longer a subconscious hum, the weight against his soul that soothed the phoenix. It was the firm knowledge where he was, what had happened, that he had died for a moment.

His heart had stopped.

Bond had felt it and he had felt the phoenix latch onto the waning life and pull it back. The creature had refused give up.

Q was alive.

The eternal beast in his soul snarled. Its mate was alive and it would make sure he stayed that way.

 

*

 

It was a private room, away from the main floor. M had put Q under quarantine, so to speak. Hardly anyone knew where the quartermaster was being treated. M himself, of course, Tanner as Chief of Staff, and two specialists from Medical who had been informed about Q’s status, as well as Bond’s.

It had only been a question of time until M had to bring in at least one other person, preferably from Medical. The two doctors understood the importance of the information and nothing would go on file. The rumors around MI6 had Bond pegged as a preternatural already, but no one knew just what he was. Q had never been suspected and his abilities were very different from his partner’s.

M’s standing orders were to give Bond access to Q wherever he was and for whatever reason he was treated. As for Bond, if he was brought in, M, Tanner or Q would be immediately informed. Should the agent die on the way or on the table, he would be wheeled into quarantine and not anywhere else. Again, only the three men would be informed.

Trained by MI6 and seniors by years, the two men had accepted those orders without batting an eye.

Bond looked at the silent, pale figure in the hospital bed, took in the lax features, the lifeless slump of the usually so unruly hair. An IV line fed Q with a clear liquid. His other arm was hooked up to a blood transfusion. The blood loss had been critical. There had been more than one stutter in his heartbeat and Bond felt his stomach clench.

The room had been set up as an ICU unit, connected to Medical, of course, and if Q crashed, the code blue would be answered within seconds. Quarantine rooms had the same basics as an ICU, so the transformation had been quick and effortless.

Adler had asked him to wear the mandatory scrubs and had left him alone. Bond was pretty sure he was already calling M.

Q was covered by a blanket that hid the bandages, but Bond knew they were there. He knew how long Q had been in surgery; five long hours. The bullet had been removed, had been turned over to evidence and was currently locked up for later examination.

A thin tube led to the nose where it was fastened securely under the nostrils. Air. To help with the oxygen intake.

He moved closer, reaching for that too pale skin, but his fingers didn’t touch it. He gazed at the well-known face, took in the stubble, the hollow cheeks, the smudges under his eyes, the clear signs of exhaustion, blood loss and pain. Suffering.

The phoenix was still boiling hotly under the surface of superior control and training. It wanted to get out, tear into the one who had shot its partner, rip him apart and enjoy his screams for mercy.

Q was his! No one hurt what was his!

Bond’s hands curled into fists and murderous violence sparked in his eyes.

Q’s fingers moved, a muscle twitching in his face. Bond leaned over his partner. Eyes blinked, revealing brown depths that were clouded and far from coherent, and he leaned forward.

"Q?"

Another blink. There was an unspoken question in those eyes and Bond shifted forward, just a fraction, holding the exhausted, drugged gaze.

"You're safe," he only said.

It was enough, just three little words. Q's lips twitched a little, then his eyes slid shut, his consciousness fading into sleep.

The phoenix was trembling, a soul-deep tremor that ran through his whole body.

Q was safe. He should have been safe before!

Someone had entered MI6, had killed several guards, had shot the quartermaster, and had tried to steal tech specs and money. And Q had apprehended him.

While running Bond. Handling his agent. Doing what needed to be done.

The preternatural finally reached for the limp, cool hand and took it into his own, thumb rubbing over the soft skin.

He hadn’t been aware of it. He hadn’t been able to tell that the technopath was deep inside the HUD, almost cutting all ties to his physical form, doing what he had to, to keep the Double-Oh safe and preventing the theft.

Pride and desperation warred inside him.

Pride because Q was such a strong technopath, was such an accomplished hacker, was such a perfect match to the phoenix. He had done something no one had thought him capable of and he had pulled it off beautifully.

Desperation because his partner had risked it all. He could have died. And the desperation ignited fury inside him. Anger and hatred and fury. He wanted to lash out at something and he couldn’t. At least not yet. Not now.

“007.”

The voice broke the silence and Bond didn’t have to turn to know that Mallory had been there for at least a minute. He had heard the steps, superior training keeping him from pulling a gun on his boss.

Protect Q. Even against one of his own.

“Q is currently stable. The bullet didn’t hit any vital organs and Dr. Adler got the fragments. He is suffering from severe blood loss, though.”

The darkness rose. Bond’s pale blue eyes burned with it.

“We didn’t know what had happened, Bond.”

“How did he get in?” was all the agent asked, voice inflectionless, cold.

“He left himself a back door in the system from his time in Q branch and then IT. Q rebuilt the system after Silva’s attack, but the back door was hidden well. We wouldn’t have caught him if not for Q’s presence at the time of the break.”

Bond’s jaw tightened. A muscle twitched and his civility was fast declining.

“Where is he?”

“Nowhere you will get to him.”

He turned his head a little, glancing at Mallory from the corner of his eye. The other man looked perfectly composed himself, but his pallor was no better than Q’s in this light and the lines in his face spoke of exhaustion as well.

“Be here for him,” M only said. “That’s your primary concern.”

The phoenix screeched indignantly. Of course Q was his primary concern! He wouldn’t be anywhere but here. Mallory knew that and he was working with it, manipulating the preternatural in a way Bond was helpless against. As much as he wanted to kill the man who had shot Q, leaving his quartermaster was out of the question.

“Bond.”

He refused to let the shields go, let the other man see his pain and fury in all its primal glory. He fought back the monster that resided in his very soul and simply nodded.

“That’s your assignment, Bond. Nothing else. I won’t tolerate your presence anywhere in MI6 but here. Otherwise you will leave.”

“Yes, sir,” he said harshly.

Mallory didn’t so much as smile, but he nodded briefly. Then he left.

James closed his eyes, the exhaustion of the past three days catching up with him, combining with the worry and fear. He sank onto a chair, feeling older than his years, drained, ready to collapse.

The bullet hadn’t killed him.

Q was alive.

Fate. Chance. Luck.

Bond had stopped believing in any of them a long time ago. He was a Double-Oh. He relied on his skills, on his training, on his preternatural ability to bring him back if he miscalculated.

Luck had nothing to do with it. Nor chance.

Q would live.

He released a slow breath, shoulders slumping a little as the tension bled out of him.

Bond leaned back in the chair, watching the sleeping man.

Fate. Chance. Luck.

He didn't care.

One of the few things he still cared about was Q. Q was more than just a tool, a way to keep the phoenix sated and calm. He had become more right from the start. He had never been a meaning to an end – or a beginning, in Bond’s case. Q had never been just anyone.

He had been the one and only exception to the rule.

Pale blue eyes closed and James wanted nothing more than to sleep, but sleep wouldn't come. He was too tired and still too driven. Because he cared, because this was Q.

Can't lose you, he thought, the emotions raging through him taking his breath away. It was like drowning, like getting no air to think.

Can’t lose you.

That line kept repeating itself endlessly. He would not lose this man; couldn’t lose him.

Bond leaned forward and he rested his head on the limp hand.

Q would live.

 

*

 

Mallory had stopped outside the quarantine room and was leaning against the wall. A nurse walked past him, nodding in greeting. To his dismay his hands were shaking slightly and he felt this sliver of relief that he had left the room.

He knew what Bond was. He just had never faced the ferocious beast this up close and personal, this close to the surface. It had been like looking into an abyss; and the abyss had glared back, licking its lips, wondering how tasty Mallory would be.

Damnit!

Bond was a very dangerous man, lethal, feral, primal, and with Q down for the count, M wondered how long it would take for the phoenix to break free.

And if it happened, how they would be able to stop Bond from murdering Leslie Collins. Q had set free the preternatural side, had given Bond his full abilities, and with it he had freed the lethal creature. It was untamed, it was ferocious, it was wild. And it was bound to Q, like Q was anchored to its darkness.

He sighed and raked a hand through his hair.

Damn.

He didn’t really need this and he had never expected anything like it to happen. Q wasn’t a field agent. He should have been safe.

M grimaced.

Safe.

After Silva, Q had made sure the mainframe was secure. It was impenetrable. No one had thought that someone who had undergone security clearance, had worked here for close to a year, would shoot their quartermaster.

No one had foreseen it.

That would have to change.

 

* * *

 

The mood at Q branch was downcast and that was the most positive word there was for it. Everyone's face showed the shock they felt after receiving the news of what had happened at their own work place. The early birds had arrived to MI6 cordoned off, under heavy guard and their work places unavailable for the day. No one told them what had happened. Rumors spread like wildfire.

Q’s second-in-command had been called even earlier and informed about the situation. Q branch was suspended until the whole damage could be assessed by a special team from IT. It seemed that Q had been able to keep Collins from taking anything outside. The funds were still there and the mirror accounts astounded the programmers combing the system and retracing Collins’ steps.

Charles Barker, the second-in-command, called in everyone and informed them of what had occurred. Wide eyes greeted his words. Murmurs rose when the men and women heard of the attempted theft, about Q being the only one present, and that he was currently in Medical, that he had been shot.

“Until further notice, I’m in charge of Q branch,” Barker said calmly, though visibly very shaken. “M has ordered everyone to refrain from trying to visit Q. He is stable, but his condition is still serious. New, temporary offices have been assigned to us until our department has been cleared.”

The employees filed out, talking with each other, the room abuzz with voices. Barker knew that this hadn’t settled in yet. It would take a little while longer for them to understand what had happened.

 

tbc...


	4. Chapter 4

Dizziness assailed him from every direction. He didn't know whether he was up or down, or sideways. He was simply there, spinning about uncontrollably.

He had to do something.

Nothing seemed to work, least of all his brain.

Random jolts spiraled through his awareness, bringing a faint wave of pain each time and he cringed away from it. Pain would soon become agony.

More dizziness and pings of pain.

He tried to move away, but it was impossible.

Bond…?

The thought hit him unprepared and he wondered where it had come from.

Again, he felt the urgency that he should be doing something, saying something, taking care of something, but it was all beyond him right now.

Blue eyes.

He saw them, wintery pale, hypnotic, inhuman and still so warm.

Blue eyes. Watching, guarding, waiting.

Awareness dimmed again and he slid back into the grayness that seemed to dominate his mind.

Blue eyes.

James?

And then there was nothingness.

 

* * *

 

He had been unable to just sit still and not… maim, kill, tear something apart. His violent side was clamoring for release and looking at his injured mate had only amplified that ferocity, this hunger for brutality.

Bond had gone to the shooting range and taken his temper out on the paper targets.

Those who had been there for their own practice had only watched in silence as 007 had emptied several clips into the various targets, each at a different distance.

No shot missed.

They were all dead center.

And looking into the mask-like face, only the blue eyes burning with the promise of death, they had quietly left the range.

Only 004 had remained. She was watching Bond with a neutral expression, her stance easy, her posture non-threatening. Bond brushed past her as he collected a new clip.

“Take care of him.”

Bond didn’t respond, didn’t even give her a sign that he had heard.

But he had.

 

 

004 watched the other Double-Oh silently from behind the safety glass, took note of the tension in every line of Bond’s body, the expressionless face, the set of his mouth.

Q had been shot inside MI6, had nearly died, and he had still managed the impossible. He was currently in ICU, under constant guard and care, and 007 was taking it out on the range.

Like many, well, most in the Double-Oh section, 004 suspected that whatever it was that ran between the quartermaster and one of their own, it was more serious than anyone had suspected so far.

007 was a charming, suave man; he could have anyone he wanted. He was known to use whatever means necessary, which meant sleeping with men and women alike. He had no preferences.

And then there was Q.

She smiled.

004 had gotten to know their new quartermaster before 007 had come back from the dead and she had liked him immensely right from the start. He was a fresh wind in the dusty, old MI6 that was riddled with traditionalism. He had been something interesting and new in the dusty halls.

And he was competent. Age didn’t matter at MI6, if you got the job done.

Look at 007, she mused. And Q. And both of them together.

They weren’t obvious. Not at all. The banter and teasing was normal for Bond. He liked to test the limits of other people and so far he had met his match in Q.

Yes, whatever it was, whatever he saw in their young quartermaster, it was more than a means to an end. It was more than a one-night stand. It was more than bed partners.

004 had been as shocked by the attack as anyone else. It had been a senseless act. Collins had shot his former boss just because he could. Q had survived severe blood loss and shock, and he had stopped him.

There was so much more to that man than met the eye.

And Bond had found something in him that had… changed him. 004 wasn’t blind. No one in the Double-Oh section was. They had taken notice, had seen that 007 was back.

Better than before.

Stronger.

With more life.

Whether he was really a preternatural or not was of no interest to her. She didn’t care one way or another. 004 had met her share of supernaturals and preternaturals, some good, some bad. Bond might be one. So what?

He was a superb agent and he had connected to their quartermaster, accepted him as his handler, and he was functioning at peak efficiency.

004 only feared what would happen should Q not survive his injuries.

She didn’t really want to hunt down one of their own. Because she knew that Bond would take revenge and not stop at just ending Collins’ life.

007 was a superb agent, with superior training like all of them. He was a ruthless killer without a conscience. Merciless. Cold. Following orders.

And like all of them he would make a perfect assassin.

No, 004 didn’t really want to imagine him on the other side. She knew there was more to him, that the rumors about his preternatural status were true and that whatever he was, it wasn’t simple and clean-cut. It was just as dark as his own nature.

And it would make him harder to take down than a vampire or werewolf.

 

* * *

 

Bond had slept on a second bed in the room for the first night he was in Medical. No one had argued with M’s orders that the agent would remain with the quartermaster.

He had slept lightly, listening to every sound Q made. He was awake around four when the nurse checked on him, then only dozed for another half hour.

Suddenly Q’s eyes moved behind closed eyelids. He moaned softly, his face twitching. He mumbled something, not real sentences, only blurred words. 

Nightmare.

Bond was at his partner’s side and touched one lax hand. Q moaned again, moving faintly, holding on to his hand with weak desperation. Bond reached out to stroke the pale forehead and cheek.

His quartermaster quieted down, breathing hard. Then his eyelids fluttered and glazed, haunted eyes looked at him from between half-closed lids. There was a spark of recognition, but no other reaction. Q seemed to try to force his consciousness closer to the real world, but the drugs and the exhaustion won. His eyes closed again and he slept once more.

Bond felt a smile tug at his lips.

He didn’t go back to sleep and the nurse who came an hour later only gave him a nod, then checked on the sleeping patient. She adjusted the IV and was gone after a few minutes.

 

* * *

 

James Bond was currently not listed as active. No one in his right mind would actually want or try to force the agent to leave MI6, let alone Medical. While most people knew nothing of the savage preternatural he was underneath that ruggedly handsome exterior, many were aware of the threat he represented.

For the first time since he had become an agent for Her Majesty, Bond remained in Medical voluntarily. Doctors and nurses made a beeline around him and those who had to be in the room worked quietly, efficiently, always under close scrutiny from a man they knew was a preternatural, just not what kind. Pale blue eyes, cold and calculating, followed their every move.

No, Bond wasn’t active right now. He had no assignments waiting, no handler ready to assist him. And when he had looked into those flat, emotionless eyes as Bond had kept vigil over Q, Mallory knew there wasn’t a chance in hell to get that man to leave MI6, let alone London or the country.

The old M had known what a liability a preternatural was when she had signed up Bond to the Double-Oh section. She had been quite aware of what would happen one day as the phoenix had consumed more and more of itself with every rebirth. She had taken a gamble and in the end, with her own death, won. She had paved the way for this unique partnership that had given her successor a new kind of James Bond. A freed phoenix who was just as deadly and effective as before, just without the burden of dying more every time it was killed once again.

Q had been the key to unlocking Bond’s full potential, and in the process he had become an asset and a liability in one. Bond trusted him implicitly, listened to him, came back because of him. He handled the Double-Oh with an ease other handlers marveled at.

But right now M could see the liability of it all.

Still, it was a small price to pay, he mused as he stood outside Medical.

Who would have thought that anyone was mad enough to steal MI6’s funds and weapons tech right from under their noses? Collins hadn’t known that the man he had shot was a technopath. He hadn’t known what Q was truly capable of. If he had, Q would most likely be very dead right now and M would have to worry about a rampaging, unrestrained Double-Oh out for revenge – and eventually taking his own life in a very final way.

Yes, a phoenix would always come back, but what would be left of the man if he lost his balance? The psychic link between them was an unknown variable and while Mallory, as the head of MI6 and responsible for so many important decisions, hated the variable, he could appreciate everything else.

The pros outweighed the cons.

He could live with the current situation, with an overprotective agent who wouldn’t leave the quartermaster’s side. The whole situation had shown M how powerful Q had become, what he could do even under duress, and it made him just as dangerous as the preternatural he was bonded to.

Within barely a year, he thought. Astounding.

Mallory had no idea where this partnership was going, but he was ready to find out.

 

* * *

 

Q woke slowly, as if he had been deeply asleep. He felt slightly strange, detached from the world, floating in a vast ocean. His body flowed with the gentle waves, almost flying. He tried to recall how he had come to be here, what had happened, but there was nothing at all.

It didn’t even alarm him that much.

It was a nice feeling to be so at ease, to feel so peaceful. He felt his lungs expand as he drew a deep breath and his eyes opened.

Q blinked, still not knowing where he was. He lay flat on his back, looking up at a gray ceiling. Dimmed artificial light cast over him.

Someone was with him.

A hand touched his face and he looked into pale blue eyes that sparked so many memories.

“007?” he mumbled.

The blue eyes crinkled at the corners into a smile. He blinked, trying to focus on the familiar face.

There was a faint ache from somewhere. He recalled something happening, getting… shot?

Yes, he had gotten shot.

Collins. Stealing data and MI6’s accounts.

“You’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

Q felt himself relax. If James told him things were fine, they were fine.

Cool.

He smiled at the phoenix and the blue eyes reflected a lot Q was unable to interpret right now.

With those thoughts he fell asleep again.

 

*

 

Q woke a few more times. Bond watched those brown eyes open, dazed, clouded, not really aware of where he was.

James was always there, intensely protective, jealously guarding his mate. He had set up camp in Medical, only left to shower and change his clothes, sometimes to work off the anger building inside him. He knew he had to do it, had to vent somewhere, and that was the exercise room. He went to the old one, the one where he wouldn’t run into any of his colleagues or other office workers. He would run himself into the ground with lifting weights, push-ups, crunches and on the tread mill.

Shower.

Change.

Back to Medical.

The phoenix was usually quiet after a vigorous work-out. It would settle back in a corner of his soul, appeased for the time being, though it did lust for blood.

Bond had tried to find out where Collins was being held, but he ran into walls.

One of those walls was a tall, strawberry blonde woman with curly hair called Ann. He had met her on several occasions and she was one of MI6’s interrogators. Ann probably wasn’t her real name. Bond knew she was a preternatural. It was actually common knowledge. While MI6 didn’t employ a lot of supernaturals or preternaturals in the field, they had them working for other departments.

She probably got the vibes off him that he was not human either. The only difference was that she was officially known for her abilities.

Ann’s profession as an interrogator was also called a confessor, her preternatural ability called a ‘siren’, and Bond had seen her work on suspects. Her voice would drop into that strange lilt, a sing-song undercurrent that wormed itself into the suspect’s brain and had him spill out whatever they knew. There were few who could resist a siren who used their abilities on a suspect.

Bond was one of them.

It was probably his preternatural side that protected him against such an attack. He had only ever met one other siren and his name had been Mario.

Bond had had to kill him.

Too bad. He had been a nice guy, just on the wrong side of the game.

That had been the moment James had understood that he was immune to siren songs.

“He’s talking,” Ann told him as she got herself a bottle of water from the fridge.

Bond had just come back from the exercise area, freshly showered, looking for a bite to eat.

“M will probably send you the report, so here’s the short version. He didn’t join MI6 because of what he had planned. He developed his greed when he discovered what he had access to. It wasn’t his intention to shoot Q. He didn’t expect the quartermaster to still be here.”

Bond’s face was unreadable, but he gave her a brief nod.

Ann studied him with a mildly curious expression. She said nothing, just took the water with her as she left, heading back to the interrogation rooms.

Bond watched her go.

She knew.

Maybe not what exactly he was, but she knew there was more than friendship between him and his handler. Not that he cared. Bond had never bothered with whatever had been said about him.

He went back to Medical.

 

tbc...


	5. Chapter 5

It was the first day Q was reasonably awake and coherent. Bond was lounging in his chair – one that was far more comfortable than the usual visitor chairs – and he had to smile at the slightly befuddled expression of his quartermaster. Q was still on pain drugs, which would soon be reduced. So far he was healing fine. Medical had been slightly surprised at how well he was doing, actually. He had lost so much blood, it had been such a close call, he shouldn’t be so far along, but Bond didn’t care about their opinion.

The injury wasn’t infected. The blood loss had been fought. Q was sleeping naturally. He was off the oxygen. That was all that counted for him.

The moment his quartermaster had been showing signs of staying awake, Bond had put the glasses on his nose. He didn’t want to risk an incident of the technopathic kind. He had no idea how much in control Q would be with the pain and the drugs. There weren’t any cameras, but there were other machines, as well as all those frequencies he might log onto.

Q had once tried to explain to him how he saw the world when he was opening himself up to it. It was a dizzying tale, almost more like a science fiction novel, and what Bond understood of it – and he understood more than most scientists might give him credit for – was that while Q didn’t see radio waves, he was aware of their existence. He could piggy-back a ride, he could listen to the chatter, and he could log into networks or machines around him.

The glasses prevented him from sliding into a surveillance network by just looking at a camera lens. The younger man had shrugged when Bond had inquired why cameras. He hadn’t been able to explain and there were no other technopaths he could ask. So the glasses were shields against those accidents, not visual aids.

Now Q regarded him rather owlishly. “You’re here.”

“Very good observation, Q.”

“Uh, why?”

“You were shot.”

The quartermaster frowned, the old spark of aggravation back in his eyes. He looked young, younger than his years.

Robbing the cradle, Bond mused darkly. Well, no. Q had been over eighteen for a long time already when he had met James Bond for the first time. He would always roll his eyes when the Double-Oh teased him about his teenage looks, pointing out that if that was the case, Bond sometimes looked old enough to be his father.

“And I’m not into those games,” he had once remarked.

“Might make things interesting,” had been the rumbled reply.

Q’s expression had been lethal.

Bond had wiped the expression off that handsome face, turning the exasperation into a moment of sensual closeness.

“I know I was shot, 007,” Q now said flatly.

“Might have messed up your memory.”

“My memory is fine.”

“Good.”

Q studied him. “So why are you here?”

“Last assignment was done, if you remember that as well.”

It got him a glare. “I do remember that, 007. I meant why are you camped out in my room?”

Bond smirked. “M’s orders are to stay with you.”

“As what? My bodyguard? I thought you caught Collins…?”

“As your partner, Q,” Bond said quietly.

That had the other man blink. “Oh. Okay.” He yawned all of a sudden. The conversation had clearly exhausted him. “Good drugs,” he muttered, almost like a complaint.

Bond huffed a laugh. “Very good, it seems.”

“Only the best.”

 

 

Q smiled a little stupidly. He could feel his IQ taking a dive and he was unable to stop it. He had wanted to stay awake, had wanted to talk with his partner about what had happened, but the pain medication was seriously impairing his brain functions.

“Wow.”

Had he just said that out loud? Goodness gracious!

His mind flailed about a little and he felt himself gently caught in silky darkness, wrapped around his mind like a cocoon. He was unable to access any kind of technology, completely protected, the anchor heavy and firm in his soul. James was all around him. He was simply there. Q had never felt like this and it wasn’t a result of the pain meds.

Blue eyes, so pale and unnatural he wanted to look at them all day, study every detail of that fascinating iris, looked at him. They caught his eyes, had Q look only at his partner.

“You’ll be okay.”

Bond was there. Physically and mentally. His touch was warm and reassuring.

“Okay,” Q breathed.

The smile he received was blinding. It didn’t blind him for the lines of exhaustion clearly etched into Bond’s unshaven face.

Q raised a heavy hand and almost clumsily touched that stubbled cheek. The preternatural closed his eyes and leaned into the unsteady touch. It was in that moment that Q understood so much more of what had happened. He was muddled, his brain refused to work properly, he wasn’t up to his usual standards, but he instinctively understood how bad it had been.

His thumb shakily brushed over the scratchy cheek. Bond caught his hand, wrapped it into a firm grip, and in an unusually open display of affection kissed the pale fingers.

Q stared at him.

“We’ll be okay,” James murmured.

Okay. They would be okay. The phoenix was still calm and protective around him, though he could feel the sharp, untamed edges, the hunger for a kill to silence the scream for revenge. He wanted to appease it, wanted to hold it, tell the primal thing to let it go.

But he was too weak.

Q felt his eyes slide shut. The black wings embraced him, the blue eyes pinpricks in his mind, watching, guarding, fiercely protective.

They would be okay, he knew.

 

* * *

 

Bond wasn’t a computer illiterate. Q liked to tease him about it and they would banter back and forth throughout missions. Bond wasn’t stupid. He knew very well how to handle a laptop or his smartphone. He had to write reports, had to access the MI6 network, and he handled foreign technology on missions.

So it wasn’t much of a problem for him to use a tablet he had acquired – more or less stolen – and he logged into the network. Holed up in Medical, close to his sleeping quartermaster, he started to search.

It took him about an hour and he was finally where he wanted to be.

The video feed from Collins’ interrogation. Bond watched the feed, listened to Ann asking specific questions, her voice taking on that lilt associated with her powers. Collins answered after resisting at first.

He had planned this all on his own, had gathered information for months, had planned this over a year ago.

Before Silva.

Before everything had changed.

Before MI6 had undergone a complete renovation and Q had become the quartermaster. Collins hadn’t known about the technopath. He hadn’t expected anyone to be there when he broke into Q branch and hacked into the network.

So he had reacted in panic and shot Q.

Bond’s vision tinged red at the edges and he fought down the irrational fury rising within him.

He would make good on his promise not to kill Collins, but he really wanted to try out a few torture methods on the man. He wanted to hear him beg for mercy. And the phoenix wanted to bury its claws in the soft flesh and watch the blood flow.

Bond closed the laptop and looked at the sleeping man. Looking at his technopath calmed him down somewhat and he felt the tension seep away a little more.

He reached for the lax hand closest to him, brushing a caress over the cool skin.

 

* * *

 

It took Q another day to really be more than a sleeping lump in the hospital bed. He was awake longer and longer stretches, and Bond was always there. In the beginning he hadn’t been too coherent and had no idea how much time had passed. When his pain medication was dialed down and he finally got his brain to work at a more acceptable level, Q found that James was never not there.

“Still on assignment?” he asked.

Bond gave him that little smile, that crinkle at the edge of his mouth. “I take my orders seriously.”

He was dressed in jeans and a black sweater with a white t-shirt underneath. Leisurely, far from the suave agent out on his more dangerous or thrilling assignments, and still he looked… smooth. Dangerous and dark and all that was associated with the nightmarish creature that sat in his soul.

And damn handsome.

Pale blue eyes reflected amusement at Q’s silent appraisal.

“How’s the head?” Bond asked.

“Fine. I’m not flashing.”

The agent gave him a long and hard look.

“Really. I’m fine.”

“Headache?”

“No. If I had one, it happened while I was out. I didn’t overdo it when I was inside. I know how to handle my powers!”

Bond’s expression was dubious and Q glared. Finally the other man gave him a little smile.

“Yes, you do.”

“And I was only in MI6’s network,” Q added sullenly. “I know my way around. Wasn’t even close to flashing.”

“You were amazing, Q.”

Brown eyes blinked up at Bond. Q felt slightly tickled by the praise.

“Your own guys are still flabbergasted at what you did.”

He harrumphed. “They better well be.”

The smile grew. “Vain much?”

Q grimaced and shifted a little. “I’d really like to get home,” he sighed, ignoring the comment.

“Medical is better suited to take care of you.”

“Better than what? You? I doubt that, 007.”

Bond raised an eyebrow.

“Do I have to remind you that you flee this place first chance you get to escape undetected? You handle your own injuries. I’m stitched up, high on drugs, had my transfusions, and I’m off the ICU watch,” Q listed. “I can recover at home.”

“When Adler agrees.”

“That never stopped you.”

The wintery eyes were serious, intense. “You’re not me, Q.”

“Finally figured that one out?”

“You’re not a phoenix.”

Q glowered. “Being a phoenix doesn’t make you heal instantly either. And Dr. Adler commented on my speedy recovery. I’m better than they expected after losing most of my blood and getting it replaced by countless transfusions.”

Strong fingers caught his own, slender ones. James interlaced them, thumb brushing over the pale skin. Q blinked, caught off guard by the display of affection in a place where anyone could walk in at any time. When he looked into his partner’s face he was almost floored by the emotions raging over the ruggedly handsome features.

The younger man shivered with the intensity of those emotions. They didn't hurt; they felt good, warm, healing.

“I… I’m fine, James,” he whispered.

“You’re not, but you will be,” was the rough reply. “And I need you to be fine, Q. I need you to be whole. Give it some more time. Give yourself some more time.”

He nodded mutely, speechless by the words, by the emotions in them. Shields had dropped for a moment, taking him by surprise, and it was nothing he had ever expected to happen like this. Not here, not out in the open. Never out in the open.

Bond leaned over him and brushed his lips over Q’s dry ones. It wasn’t truly a kiss, just a touch of lips against lips. Q had never felt anything more intimate.

“I promise I will get you out of here the moment they say you are fit to recuperate at home,” the Double-Oh whispered against his lips.

Q smiled and brushed over the stubble of one cheek, then initiated a real kiss that Bond answered gently.

 

* * *

 

Members of Q branch were only informed about their boss’ recovery, but visitors were not allowed. The only people dropping by were M and Tanner.

Bond was always there, unyielding, a dark, silent shadow in a corner of the room, watching the visitors with eagle eyes.

Mallory met the cold gaze with one of his own. He wasn’t intimated and he refused to be impressed. Bond knew he had freaked his boss out just a little bit when he had come to see him in quarantine. He didn’t really care and he wouldn’t apologize now.

Tanner only rolled his eyes.

“I’m not here to steal him, James,” he murmured when he walked out of the room. “Get a grip on yourself or you’ll start punching holes in the walls next.”

Bond was in control. Of course he was. He was a model of self-restraint and control. Only his eyes gave him away.

Still he went for a long, tiring swim and only came back to Medical after two hours of relentless exercising. He had run into 008 while he was in the shower. His colleague had given him an inquiring look and Bond had reluctantly answered the unspoken question.

“He’s alive.”

008 watched him, those sharp eyes a match for Bond’s. “Good to hear. Give him our best.”

So the news had reached everyone, Bond translated. Q was his handler, but he was MI6’s quartermaster and he had worked with other agents on a regular basis, supplying them with standard issue and specialized equipment. He developed and created what was needed, not just for 007. They all knew him and he knew all of them, though not about the depth of their connection..

Abbey was there when he walked back into Medical, giving him a brief nod and smile. He went into Q’s room and found him sound asleep, resting easily.

The agent took his place and switched on the tablet, watching the news while reading reports. Now and then he hunted for news about Collins, but the man had been transferred out of MI6’s underground installation and to a high security prison, awaiting arraignment. There was no doubt about his prison sentence.

Bond would have loved to give him his own farewell.

 

tbc...


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right! My next business trip and this time I have wifi that lets me log in! YES! Have a new chapter, you all!

Q was released by the end of the week with a ton of advice, set-up appointments for rehab and several prescriptions. He had slept through the first day, plainly too exhausted to be much company or trouble.

Bond had actually shopped and filled the fridge with everything he might need. Basic food. Basic drinks. Anything else he would order out.

Working was out of the question and even if Q had tried to, he wouldn't have made it out the door. If not because of the general weakness he felt, the bouts of shivers, the cold, then because of the man with the license to kill. Bond was adamant about his partner taking it easy and resting.

The shivers alone convinced Q that it was in his best interest to remain wrapped up in heaps of blankets and buried underneath them in bed. He liked the warmth they gave him. Blood loss was bad and his body was still trying to reacquaint itself with health; a tedious and rather long process.

And Bond hovered.

He was a fiercely protective, incredibly deadly and inherently violent, primal creature that hovered over his partner like Q had never seen him before. It was so completely new, so unprecedented, the quartermaster was busy making notes in his head. His thankfully once again drug-cleared and working head. His brain might not have regained all its IQ points just yet, but he was functional enough.

“I’m not going to break,” he told his partner on the third day at home when Bond glared at him because Q had gotten himself a bottle of water. “I read my medical file. I actually understand what’s in there. I need to move about. I’m getting physical therapy, for heaven’s sake! It’s more straining than what I do here!”

The blue eyes flared with a fury that wasn’t directed at Q personally. He held that gaze, let the fury wash over him, waited for the phoenix to calm down to a manageable level.

“I’m healing, James,” he said in the even voice he used while directing Bond through a mission. “I’ll be back at Q branch before we know it and you’ll be back on a mission.”

The phoenix was still snarling, foaming at the mouth. It showed in Bond’s tension, the way his tendons stood out at the neck. His lips were a thin line and the tightness around the eyes was growing.

Q felt a little stab from his healing shot wound and placed a hand over it. He refused to back down from the preternatural, his own features set with determination.

Ferocious killer or not, he wouldn’t back down. It was a battle of wills and he was very capable of holding his own against Bond.

Finally the agent looked away. Not in defeat. Never in defeat. It was a simple acknowledgement of Q’s words.

“Take your medication,” was all Bond rumbled.

Q smiled a little and brushed his fingers over Bond’s hand as he walked past. “I will. Thank you.”

 

 

Q obediently took the prescription medication. His fingers shook a little, but Bond kept back, let him work it out himself. He knew how independent his partner was; just like him. Helping him would result in a surge of anger and indignation.

They were so much alike. So very much.

His perfect match. He would never have believed it, but it had happened. No one else compared to this man; no other man or woman.

Not even her.

For the first time, thoughts of Vesper weren’t accompanied by the pain of her betrayal and death. For the first time she was just another part of his past.

His future was looking at him, out of liquid brown eyes, expectant, patient and yet so exasperated.

Q curled slender fingers around Bond’s wrist. With the physical contact came more calmness. It settled over the discontent and fury like a balm, a coolness that was addictive. Bond closed his eyes, only feeling, pushing the snapping, snarling beast back.

Q was here. He was safe. He might be weak and barely holding himself together, but he was home and safe.

Q’s touch was the most grounding experience he had ever felt. It went deeper than skin, was in his soul, lodged firmly in the darkness. His quartermaster might not feel the raging void that clamored and shrieked, that was fed by violence and blood, but he weathered it in his own way. He knew the phoenix, knew the dark creature was always there, but he gave it… peace.

Bond’s hands buried in the loose sweater and pulled the unresisting man to him. Bond felt Q lean into him some more and he pressed a kiss to his tousled hair.

“Get some rest,” he murmured roughly.

Q’s body was shutting down again. He saw the signs.

Bond watched him fall asleep not soon after on the couch. Pale eyes, cold as glaciers and still reflecting the fire of his preternatural side took in the pain-marked features, the lines of stress in the too young face. Q never looked his age, even under the most dire circumstances. 

He also knew that part of that stress was Bond himself. He couldn’t help those unaccustomed emotions of having to protect, to keep his partner safe, to make sure he wasn’t going to collapse and die from complications.

Q had survived the shot and he was healing. Bond knew Adler was very pleased with him, astounded he was doing so well. Physical therapy was tiring, but it helped immensely.

He was alive. Q was alive. He was with him. He was… alive…

Bond looked at the sleeping man. His quartermaster was alive. The phoenix drank in the sight of the recovering man.

“I need you,” he said softly.

So very, very much.

 

* * *

 

Q moved restlessly in his sleep, the lines of pain deepening and turning into more than physical pain. They were recollections of something nightmarish, now transformed into images his sleeping mind tried to deal with. Fingers clutched at the blankets, the pillow, whatever, and he murmured something. He didn't wake, he didn't sit up crying out and seeking some kind of hold or help, he just went through the nightmares and finally quieted down a little, though deep sleep didn't come any more. In the morning he was tired, remembering some disconnected images, all of blood and violence and pain.

He didn't say anything to Bond and if Bond saw the remnants, he didn't pressure Q into talking.

His partner would decompress in his own way. The moment he was ready to talk, he would.

And Bond would be there.

 

* * *

 

Physical therapy was hell. A nightmare. Torture.

Q cursed his therapist colorfully while biting back the pain from the torn muscles.

The exercise was light, wouldn’t have made him break into a sweat before, but now everything was different. He was weak, he was a wreck and his body was betraying him.

How did Bond take this torture? he thought throughout one particularly grueling exercise.

His stomach complained and he gasped weakly when John let him up for air.

The whole rehab therapy had been set up inside MI6. There was a vast and exclusively equipped training facility for such cases, since MI6 was very interested in keeping their assets in shape. The exercise area was one thing; the therapy area another. While it held similar machines, it was only for physical rehabilitation.

Like Q’s.

He was in a private room, one that was as large as his living room, with mats on the floor and torture devices everywhere.

Q stared at the ceiling, trying to get his breathing under control, one hand resting against his torn side.

“How bad?” John wanted to know.

“Five,” he managed.

It had been a seven just four days ago, so he was getting better.

Bond wouldn’t have rated this above a three, he mused darkly. The man had such a high threshold for pain, he was the bane of every therapist.

“We are done for today,” his own therapist announced. “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow. Try light exercises at home.”

Q rolled onto his good side and managed to get up without too much strain on the wound, but it still ached.

“Thanks, John,” he muttered.

The man smiled. “As if. I know you’re calling me all kinds of names in your head, Q.”

Q frowned at him.

“Everyone does,” John added with a wink. “It’s normal. It’s what I do. ‘Physical therapist’ is just the professional title for ‘wicked torturer’.”

“As long as you’re having fun,” Q muttered.

“Oh, I do.” Another wink. “Now shower, take care of the bandage, and I’ll see you in forty-eight hours.”

Q left the room, heading for that shower and it helped ease the ache. A company car took him home and he had never been so glad for an elevator.

 

* * *

 

“You can’t be here with me all the time,” Q stated.

Bond turned from the coffee machine, shooting him one of those bland looks.

“You are an agent of MI6. You have assignments. Even with your accumulated vacation days you can’t be my shadow 24/7.”

“I am on assignment.”

Q rolled his eyes. “You are babysitting me.”

“It’s as good an assignment as anything else.”

“It’s a waste of time! I’m fine! I’m healing!”

“And I’m not leaving. M’s orders.”

Q glared. Bond wasn’t fazed, looked at him with unyielding firmness, that terrifying intensity that had made stronger men cower and turn away.

Not Q.

Never Q.

“M told you to watch me in Medical. He did it because you’re a bloody menace on a good day and a damn nightmare on the better ones! I know he is giving us time, but this isn’t working out. You will go to work, Bond, or god help I will make you!”

The preternatural regarded him with mild curiosity. It was clear that he didn’t take the words as even close to a threat.

Q muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath and turned, walking over to the door. He could move rather well, though he had to take care not to twist too sharply. The wound would pull. He also wasn’t allowed heavy lifting, which wasn’t a problem either. He didn’t own a car and never had been in need of a company car since he took the tube. M had been growling at him that it was unbecoming for a department head of Q branch not to have a car, since anything could happen on the tube. Q had argued that he was perfectly fine as it was.

He took his coat and opened the door. He was barely two steps outside when Bond was next to him, glaring at the younger man.

“Where are you going?”

Q pushed past him. The Double-Oh agent didn’t stop him bodily, though he blocked the elevator the moment Q hit the call button.

“I’m going to work.”

The elevator doors opened with a ping.

Bond wasn’t moving.

Q wasn’t backing down, meeting the wintery eyes, refusing to be intimidated. It would be the first time anyway.

The whole man was radiating anger and darkness. The phoenix was glaring at him with such temper, Q wondered how he didn’t burst into flames. Not that the preternatural was actually a fire bird. The only thing that truly burned was the darkness inside him, that nightmarish primality held in check by human civility. And sometimes not even that.

No, Q had never reacted to that promise of imminent violence and he wouldn’t start today.

“You won’t go on an assignment because your handler isn’t there,” he stated, voice even, cool. Reasonable. He was always reasonable. It was what worked with Bond. “So I’ll be there.”

“You won’t. You’re still on sick leave.” Oh, and it had to hurt to talk with those clenched jaws and nearly gnashing teeth.

The elevator doors closed. Q hadn’t been able to get on.

“I offer a compromise then.”

The blue eyes darkened with flaring temper.

“I can be there for you from at home.”

Bond gave him a slightly confused look. He had expected just about anything, but not that. Q liked to hit the phoenix unexpectedly with logic, because it tore into the red zone, the fury, and dissipated it enough for the balance to settle in.

“Technopath, 007?” Q prompted him with a faintly devious tone in his voice.

It got him a narrow-eyed warning.

“My body was injured, not my mind. I can handle you on an assignment. It’s the compromise I offer you.”

“Or what?”

“I’ll let M know you and I will be back tomorrow.”

Bond stepped back, all tense lines and darkness. His primal nature was growling and hissing and snapping at no one in particular. The phoenix was looking for a target and found none. It hadn’t been allowed to kill the one responsible for its partner’s injuries. It missed the kill.

Q waited.

For a heartbeat. Two. Three.

He finally walked over to the tense figure, ignoring all the warnings, all the danger signs. He was safe with James Bond, with the preternatural, with the phoenix.

“Go back to work,” he said, placing a hand on the hard muscled chest. “I’ll be there. No other handler.”

Bond looked at him, unreadable, unmoving, but Q saw the flicker deep within. He felt the protective darkness in his mind. The technopath was so used to it, so at ease with the silkiness, he leaned into the contact.

Complete trust.

James raised a hand, ran blunt fingers over the smooth-shaven skin of Q’s jaw. He buried them in the longish, dark hair and Q smiled at him.

He knew what James felt. He felt the same.

“We have to go back to normalcy,” he said softly. “I know why you are doing this, but it has to stop.”

“He shot you,” Bond hissed. “Inside MI6!”

“And it was an accident. A freakish event.”

Bond’s other hand rested lightly on the still bandaged wound in his side. Q had an appointment for the day after tomorrow to get the stitches removed. One more week of physical therapy and his therapist had promised to allow him back to work for a few hours each day.

“You need to work this off,” he murmured. “Or you’ll implode.”

The blue eyes darkened, the color so unnatural, so intense, Q wanted to just stand there and watch his phoenix, mesmerized, drawn into the void that was the preternatural. That ever-hungry, dangerous void.

Instead he kissed him gently, then stepped back.

Bond looked at him, unblinking, then licked his lips as if tasting the brief contact. He saw the want and the hunger in those eyes, saw the vulnerability, the pain of nearly losing Q, saw the…

He felt himself breathe in, quite aware of it all. Q had seen it before, that deep, intense emotion that hadn’t died, that was still there, that many claimed was for teenage girls and children.

But it was there.

It rested heavily between them, but not uncomfortable. A knowledge that was simply… there.

Q turned and went back into the flat. The silent steps that followed him told him that Bond wasn’t far behind. He accessed his network and sent M an email.

He received a confirmation and the promise to assign Bond national cases until Q was back for good.

The quartermaster smiled a little.

He caught himself when he discovered Bond was watching. But the crinkle at the edge of his partner’s lips told him that the other man was aware of what had happened.

 

*

 

Two days later the Double-Oh was on the way to Glasgow for his next assignment. Q stayed in their flat, logged into the MI6 network via his own, his laptop screen showing him a red dot moving north.

 

tbc...


	7. Chapter 7

Bond was back within three days. It had been an easy case. The debrief was quick and to the point. There hadn’t been any complications and Bond delivered his gun and phone to Q branch with barely a glance at Q’s stand-in. The underlings shot him brief glances, but no one approached him or even dared to meet his eyes.

Q had been with him through the earpiece, his voice easy, calm and very much in control. There had been no problems and data and information had been acquired as if he was right there, in the middle of Q branch, with a dozen screens at his disposal.

Bond walked into the flat just as the thunder shower that had been in the making all day came down. Spring was the time of even more unpredictable rain and while it had been sunny almost all week, tonight the rain was taking over.

Q was there; of course. Bond had been told by Tanner that their quartermaster had only been in once for his medical appointment. Adler had remarked that he was still very pleased with the progress and that the technopath showed a predisposition for fast healing, not unlike Bond.

At that the preternatural had seen a slight shift in Tanner’s features, but he had refused to react to the silent question. He knew it was inherent in his nature because of the phoenix. He came back from the dead and he healed faster than normal. Q’s ability should be confined to his mind only, but there was so little known about him, it might be a part of being a technopath, too.

He didn’t want to think about it right now. Q was healing; it was the most important thing on his mind.

The stitches were out, the scar fine.

Q would be fine.

 

 

Q peered out the window. There was nothing but rain and clouds. Typical spring. Someone was hurrying across the street below. Lightning lit up the sky, then the thunder clap followed right away. Q flinched a little, shoulders hunching up, and he let the curtain fall closed.

“Afraid of a thunder storm?” came the teasing rumble.

“Hardly.”

Something touched him from behind.

A warm gentle hand was stroking his back in comforting circles, and Q found himself all but lean into the calming, soothing, caring touch.

Caring.

It said so much about them, about how this was beyond mere functionality and need and primal hunger. The connection was a lot, but it didn’t necessarily nurture caring. Still James Bond cared. His expression said it all, his past actions spoke volumes, even though he never said a word.

The phoenix hungered and needed and claimed what it needed. The preternatural was powerful and all-consuming, a dark energy that overwhelmed and devoured. Q had weathered that storm often before and he held his own.

Right now James was careful of the bruised skin around the shot wound. Q was getting better each day, but his body had been through hell. It was still recovering and it would take a while for him to shake off the last effects of the near-death experience. He knew all the facts, but his brain refused to accept the limitations.

Bond’s palms slid under Q’s sweater, over the taped scar, lips seeking out his partner’s and kissing the other man gently.

No possession. No claim. Just contact.

“I’m okay,” Q murmured.

“I know,” was the low, rough answer.

Bond’s finger explored the edges of the bandage, his caress so feather-light Q didn’t feel any pain from the barely-there pressure. He placed small kisses on his partner’s neck and wrapped an arm around Q’s slender waist.

“I know,” he repeated and Q felt Bond bury his face against his neck.

It was such a vulnerable, soft gesture, he swallowed. Q turned and the embrace loosened. Blue eyes, pale and filled with emotions never talked about, regarded him with a single-minded attention.

The kiss that graced his lips spoke of everything that would never make it into words.

The storm was now right above them and the rain thundered hard against the window. James brushed his lips over Q’s temple, his eyes, his nose, then caught his mouth again.

“You’re cold,” he whispered.

“I’m fine.”

And he hated how he enjoyed the strong arms around him, how he wanted Bond to be there, everywhere, with him. He wasn’t a damsel in distress! He had been shot, nearly died, and he had spent three days in ICU, but he wasn’t about to have a nervous breakdown!

“It’s not wrong to need something, Q,” Bond said calmly. “I know I need you. I will always need you. It doesn’t make me weak or has me lacking.”

Q stared at him, drawn between affront and that very need.

Bond ran a gentle caress over the unruly hair. He brushed his fingers over one temple, then down the clean-shaven chin.

He lost himself in the study of the technopath, brushing over lines that showed the pain of the last days, trying to smooth them out. Bond felt the warmth under each caress, read the relaxation setting in.

Q finally caught his hand. His lips displayed a faint smile. Then he leaned in and kissed him, drawing back before Bond could react. The expression was more playful and Q saw the Double-Oh briefly debate with himself, then he just followed his handler’s lead.

He let himself be pulled to their bedroom.

 

 

Q could almost feel the moment Bond relinquished control and didn’t fight his intentions any more.

He was fine. Really.

And they needed this.

There was nothing wrong with having a little fun. No strenuous activities, Adler had told him, and he was sure his agent would pull the emergency brakes on anything even remotely painful.

And he wanted James. His phoenix wasn’t the only one hungering for its partner. The technopath had been going increasingly stir-crazy and he wanted more than a touch or a kiss.

Bond smiled at him when Q pushed up the t-shirt separating him from a naked James Bond, and obligingly pulled it over his head. The smile grew as he took in Q’s expression of growing lust.

Damn, the man was attractive. And in shape. Very well in shape.

Q caressed the firm planes, enjoying the warm smoothness of muscle and sinews, honed to perfection. Kissing that perfection, nipping at places, he listened to the sharply indrawn breath. Broad hands came up to repay the favor of intimate touches, and Q pushed his partner back a little, toward the bed.

James moved, never losing contact.

Until the backs of his knees hit the bed. Until he silently, lithely laid back and Q straddled him.

No pain. He felt good. And hungry. He wanted this man so badly, it hurt more than the shot ever had.

He saw the mirrored spark of need in the pale blue eyes.

The next kiss was harsher this time and both men battled for dominance. It was a longer fight than usual and Bond grinned victoriously when Q relented. The grin turned wolfish as he gazed at the now harder breathing man. The challenge in his partner's eyes was clear.

Q drew back with an effort, sitting back on the strong thighs and removed his own t-shirt, revealing the bandage.

There was no pity in Bond’s eyes, no pain, just the knowledge that this could have broken them both. Q’s death would have unleashed something so terrible, neither man had mentioned it. And Q had no idea who would have ended the nightmare for Bond if he had lost his balance. A phoenix could be killed by excessive force, but they would have had to catch him first.

James reached up and traced the tape holding the bandage in place. It would come off soon, maybe in two or three days. Both men had seen the red scar, the knitting skin, and Q knew he would have the torn skin to show for the rest of his life. Bullet wounds didn’t leave clean marks. His partner was proof of that.

He covered the hand with his own, keeping it flat against the injury, holding the blue eyes firmly.

He was fine.

They were fine.

And he wanted this like nothing else in the world.

Leaning forward, letting go of the hand, he braced himself on the mattress to enjoy the taste of the other man, nipping and licking at the enticing lips. Bond’s hands slid over his waist, brushing over the curve of his ribs, over his back, along his sides, gentle pressure bringing Q closer.

His pants were by now getting rather uncomfortable and he suspected James wasn’t any better off. Elbows resting left and right of the ruggedly handsome face he continued the increasingly intense kisses, his hips moving sensuously over Bond’s.

The agent groaned softly.

Q smirked against the reddish lips.

“Problem, 007?” he murmured, biting at the jaw.

Strong hands kneaded his ass and Q pushed harder against the growing arousal underneath his own. His breath stuttered a little.

“Problem, quartermaster?” came the devious reply.

“Bloody ass.”

Bond silenced the curse and deftly worked on Q’s pants, sliding them over the firm behind. Thank god for sweats!

Having those calloused hands on his naked butt didn’t really help and he groaned at the sensation of a playful finger sliding into a region that was yammering for touches.

“You keep that up and it’ll be over very, very quickly,” he panted.

“Who says that isn’t the plan?” Bond’s low voice against his ear had him shudder again.

Dear god!

“Naked. You. I want you naked,” he blurted, cursing his faltering brain for again losing a major part of his IQ somewhere in the nether regions of his mind.

Bond made a little move and Q willingly rolled off him, the other man lithely taking the top. He opened his pants, those sharp, feral eyes on his technopath all the time, and when he effortlessly pushed from his knees to his feet to lose the pants, Q knew he was openly salivating at the sight.

Bloody hell, it had been only a few weeks! And here he was, reacting like a starving man!

It was undignified.

And he couldn’t care less!

He stripped off his sweats, throwing them off the bed and Bond, the bastard, chuckled softly. He knelt over him, their positions reversed, and the predator regarded his partner with such fire, with such want and need, Q’s brain took a holiday.

 

 

Bond spooned up behind Q, sliding easily into the tight heat. It put almost no strain on the healing wound. The technopath moaned softly. He pushed back, wanting more, and both men knew it wouldn’t last long. Q was almost starved for this intimacy and he was projecting it.

James fisted the hard erection in his hand, listened to the harsh pants, the encouraging groans, until Q came and clenched his ass around the intruder. Bond groaned deeply and pushed hard into the willing body, hissing as his release hit him. He was still pumping Q lazily, the softening erection slick and warm. Q shuddered, breathing hard.

Bond placed a kiss against the sweaty neck, teething it gently. It got him another shudder.

He stroked over the slender form, nuzzling the skin, the neck, placing more kisses on the shoulders.

“Okay?” he murmured.

Q turned, catching those lips in a kiss. “Very. Didn’t really take long.”

The Double-Oh agent huffed a little laugh.

Q rolled onto his back and Bond slid an arm over the narrow waist, resting his head on his partner’s chest. Slender fingers raked through his hair and he closed his eyes, feeling so very relaxed and calm. He listened to every breath Q took, listened to his heartbeat.

 

* * *

 

Q was still asleep when James woke the next morning to the first rays of sunlight trying to pierce the gray cloud cover. The rain of before had turned into a drizzle. The clock on the nightstand told him it was only five a.m. Way too early, but he still slid out of bed, dressed in his running pants, a hooded sweater and wrapped a scarf around his neck against the cold. Fingerless gloves and a pair of running shoes completed the outfit.

He started his morning route, alternating between paths he had run before. He wasn’t a predictable man and as an agent he had learned that routine could get you killed. So his routes alternated. Never the same.

His mind blanked, though his senses were alert for any kind of threat that might be in front of him, behind him, coming up next to him.

The streets were already filled with life. Delivery trucks, workers, the first office workers to come in, dog walkers, the last few stragglers to come home from their night jobs.

The rain was no bother for Bond. He relished the coolness, the wetness, like he relished the work-out. His muscles moved smoothly, without the slightest burn, and his lungs filled with air, not burning with the need to rest. He pushed himself into a harder jog, almost a run, then slowed down again, simply to do it again.

Sweat stained the t-shirt underneath the hoody and he found himself grinning at the sheer life he felt inside him.

Last night had been exceptional. It had been wonderful. It had been a reaffirmation of their connection, a confirmation that Q was healing, was almost healthy, and just holding the slender form in his arms, hearing him breathe, hearing his heartbeat, had soothed the smoldering beast inside him.

The phoenix wanted nothing more than to kill who had harmed its mate, but it couldn’t. Collins wouldn’t die at Bond’s hands, except if he tried something stupid; like escaping. Part of Bond was hoping for that to happen. He would hunt the man down like a rabid dog.

Taking the steps before him two at a time, he continued his job along the streets, evading cabs, cars and pedestrians.

They were almost back to normal. Q wasn’t at MI6 yet, but he worked with his agent and Bond had felt more at ease on his latest assignment than all those weeks before. The angry tension had drained, replaced by the normal and expected tension of every mission. Q had been the calm, rational voice in his ear, teasing, bantering and muttering in aggravation when Bond had not followed his orders.

Normal.

He smiled and turned back to head home.

He even upped the pace and ignored the elevator when he got back, racing up the stairs with an energy other agents would be jealous of.

 

 

Q was awake when he walked into the flat, sweaty, hair wet from the rain, face flushed, breathing hard. The quartermaster looked up from where he sat on the couch, mug of tea next to him, laptop open on his lap.

He smiled a greeting.

Bond smiled back, stripping off his clothes as he walked to the bathroom. He was quite aware of those alert eyes following him, and he enjoyed it.

Q was still on the couch when he returned wearing fresh clothes, hair towel-dried and sticking up all over the place. The smell of coffee led him into the kitchen and he quickly made himself a simple toast breakfast to take to the couch.

It was how they started their morning together. Sitting on the couch, Bond watching the news while eating breakfast, Q at his laptop, a companionable silence between them.

Their bodies touched and Bond almost automatically adjusted to the weight against his shoulder. What came next was like a dance, slow and sensual, lasting throughout the news.

The laptop was deposited on the floor.

Q tugged at him a little.

They slid into a comfortable position, side by side. The couch was wide and long enough for both men to lie down and they had done it often before.

Q was cushioning the blond head on his stomach and Bond rested a warm hand on the scarred side.

The half-empty mug of tea stood forgotten on the side table.

His hand pushed under the sweater, encountering warm skin. He didn’t even realize it at first, only a slight gasp alerted him to the fact that he was no longer touching fabric but soft skin. Flattening his hand against the smooth stomach he just lay there, taking in every breath, every minute movement, reveling in the somewhat intimate moment.

Bond’s hand explored the abdominal muscles, up the curve of the ribs, to the chest, feeling the heart beat under the deceptively silky skin. He was careful of the healing injury. Q hadn’t been in pain last night, but Bond knew how long it took for such wounds to heal. He had very intimate knowledge.

And he wasn’t trying to start anything. He just wanted to touch, to feel the life of his partner, to feel his strength. The phoenix purred softly, completely at peace, and Q’s relaxed form told him the rest.

Q kissed the short, blond strands, curling a little around the other man.

James just smiled and closed his eyes, deeply at peace with himself and the world.

 

tbc...


	8. Chapter 8

The next mission had him across the Atlantic and hunting a missing diplomat in Argentina. Q was still at his own flat, using a standing connection into the MI6 network to handle whatever Bond needed. He easily accessed the HUD and was right there, seeing everything the traffic cameras, surveillance from surrounding buildings and even smartphone cameras showed him. Bond was wearing a tracker, had his specialized earpiece and mic with him, and Q calmly informed him of possible obstacles in his pursuit of the man he had been sent to find and eliminate before he could sell government secrets to some underground group.

It was easy.

It was actually the most fun he had had since being cooped up at home.

TV, video games and sleep weren’t his definition of a good time at home. The HUD was a bit of freedom and he liked to stretch his technopathic muscles.

Yes, he had been free to work on his own projects, some pet designs that he fiddled with now and then. And yes, he had made progress on a personal favorite of his, one that he was still working on getting funds for to actually build. M had given him a limit to go with and Q found it a rather small amount of money to integrate all he wanted in his design.

It was a challenge.

He loved challenges.

And while he was already here, keeping an eye on his agent, Q went through the accumulated reports and emails of his department. He accessed the R&D files, skimmed the entries, moved several files for later perusal, and was mildly impressed how well things worked. Not perfectly. Far from perfect. He didn’t believe that he, as the head of the department, was the sole reason the machine functioned without a glitch, but apparently his shooting had rattled the men and women under his command.

Q was slightly tickled by it, though he shouldn’t be. As the youngest head of a department of MI6, the youngest ever quartermaster of Q branch, he had been under careful scrutiny for those first few months, and especially after the Silva incident. He had proven that he could lead, that he wasn’t just a talented hacker with a genius level intellect.

He had the respect of his team.

It went a long way.

“You there, Q?”

::Always::

And he was back with Bond, relaying more information, handling the electronic side of the mission.

 

 

It was early in the morning when Bond went back to his hotel. Not one of those ultra luxurious ones with private pools and personal service. It was a quiet place, outside the hubbub of city life, and Q had chosen it, because it was still very secure and easily provided multiple escape routes. James had appreciated the foresight, like he had appreciated the choice of room.

::Your plane leaves at eight:: Q informed him, voice professional and even.

They hadn’t spoken since Bond had had to go silent for a prolonged time. When he had surfaced, he hadn’t contacted Q. The quartermaster had been keeping several eyes out for any sign of the Double-Oh and he had seen when Bond had come back to the hotel, looking like he had been dragged through gravel and mud. There were a few open wounds, some scrapes, some bruises.

Nothing serious.

Nothing that made Q scramble to send an evac team.

All his agent had told him was that the target had been eliminated and the data files retrieved.

Then he had taken a long shower.

Q had used that time to extricate himself from the HUD, send M and Tanner the confirmation of the mission objective achieved, informed them that Bond would leave the country within the next twenty-four hours, and then had sat back with a cup of tea to wait.

James was tired. He could almost feel it. He heard it in the simple grunt of acknowledgment the flight time info got him.

Q waited.

They didn’t have to talk and Bond probably didn’t want to either. He never really talked about that part of the job until much later, at home, when there was nothing but them.

Q respected that.

Bond didn’t go to bed, even if there were still four hours until the flight would leave. He left the hotel, took a car – not a rental and Q didn’t ask where he got it from – to the train station, where he left his mode of transport. He arrived at the airport two hours before take-off and still no words had been spoken.

Q was reading tech specs and R&D reports in the meantime. He wasn’t that tired and he knew he wouldn’t get any sleep until Bond was on the plane. And maybe even then he wouldn’t. It depended on whether James fell asleep or wanted to talk.

It was neither, he found out three hours later. Bond was awake, flirting with the stewardess attending to him in first class, drinking, watching the inflight entertainment, but he didn’t address Q or catch some necessary sleep.

So Q finally gave in to his own needs. He didn’t shut down the laptop or terminate the connection to the main servers, though. He kept his phone on alarm should Bond page him.

Then he crawled into bed and surrendered to the exhaustion that had crept up on him.

 

*

 

Bond went into his usual debriefing, then simply left MI6 and headed home. He found Q awake, though looking like he hadn’t slept all that much, and fiddling with what looked like design specs. He was using a three-dimensional holographic image projector, one he had developed for his home network only, one that would cost a fortune for MI6 to implement for regular use. The table was a work space, a clear plate that doubled as a gigantic tablet pc, and above it floated the images Q had called up.

He had never asked Q where the funds for all his tech gadgets came from, but he had done his own digging. James Bond was a spy after all; it was what he did.

“You could have asked,” Q had said conversationally one evening.

“Would you have answered?”

It had gotten him a smile. “Most likely.”

He knew now that before the old M had found the technopath, who had been at the brink of losing himself, Q had hacked enough networks and rerouted enough money from illegal operations world-wide, wiping every trace of where it had gone and sending whoever was looking for it on wild goose chases. Even before he had entered the secret service to hack for Queen and Country, Q had done his share to overthrow shadow organizations by pulling their funds.

He had been a ghost in the system, a presence within the net that left no electronic trace, because he was an organic intruder. The money had gone into his tech and this place. Bond wasn’t poor, had inherited a lot; enough that there had never been a need to work. His preternatural inheritance had made it impossible for him to play the role of a wealthy business man.

For Q money hadn’t played a vital role. Sanity had. He had grasped at straws to stay afloat the chaos in his head. Working for MI6 was simply a way to deal with what he was, to be safe.

Bond almost laughed at that.

But then again, M had saved him. And she had saved James Bond. She had taken a gamble and she had won; she had given them each other.

Bond stood in the entrance hall, just looking at the picture before him.

He had never been one for a regular life. There had never been anywhere he would have called home.

But this was.

This was what he had gained and what was his, what he would never lose.

Not to someone like Collins. Not to anyone else.

Fierce protectiveness rose and the phoenix rumbled. The old anger was back again, the need to kill to protect; the need to take a life to live.

His quartermaster looked up and gave him a welcoming smile, eyebrows rising in a wordless question.

The phoenix quieted down abruptly, not calm but more even-tempered.

No, he wasn’t ready to talk. He had done what was necessary, had taken out a potential threat, had left the body in a pool of blood, and he had brought back the still sealed hard drive with the vital information Wasiliew had taken.

Routine. Taking a life was routine.

Psych eval would have to wait. It didn’t help him anyway. The phoenix had reveled in the kill, had finally been able to get rid of that particular itch. Wasiliew hadn’t been Collins, but it had at least scratched the itch for now.

Bond just walked up to his partner, slipped an arm around that slender waist and buried his head in the crook of Q’s neck. Slender but strong arms held him.

No words were spoken.

That was all he needed.

 

* * *

 

Q returned to work eight weeks after the shooting. He was up to date on projects, had talked with his second-in-command several times, and he had signed off on new developments to be implemented.

As usual, he was early. The day before he had gone to see M, had assured the man that he was perfectly fit to return. He had already been through three evals, which had had Bond roll his eyes. Q had simply given him a smile each time he had come out with flying colors.

“That’s how you do it, 007.”

“I’m a slow learner.”

“Hm, figures.”

And now he was back.

People looked at him, some curious, some apprehensive. Most nodded a greeting, some approached and welcomed him back, and Barker just made a flourishing gesture toward the main work station usually occupied by Q.

“Kept it warm, sir.”

Q smiled. “It’s very much appreciated. Any memos I might have missed?”

He knew he hadn’t, but Barker had no idea what he was.

“None, sir. Welcome back.”

And it was good to be back. Especially since he now had a good idea how to handle the budget problem on a side project of his, keeping it within M’s set limits.

Downtime was good for such pet projects.

 

 

Bond sauntered into Q branch three hours later, looking right back at home, despite his almost eight week absence in the place. No one had dared to touch the couch, move it even the slightest.

Q hid a smile behind his tea mug.

“Anything I can do for you, 007?”

“Thought I’d say welcome back, Q.”

“Thank you.” He typed a few commands. There was no new mission waiting for Bond. “I see you’re free right now.”

“Is that an invitation to a date, quartermaster?”

Q could see the attention of his staff shift a little from their work to the conversation between their boss and the Double-Oh.

“Actually it’s the inquiry as to what you are doing here.”

“Bored.”

Q cocked an eyebrow. “We’re not in the entertainment business, 007.”

Bond grabbed a tablet and settled on the touch, calling up a game. Q sighed, sounding slightly put-upon, just for the show of it, then went back to his work.

003 would be coming in within the next hour to pick up mission equipment and one of the London field agents was expected to deliver a laptop to attempt a data recovery. It seemed the laptop was in a very bad shape. Well, his team would have fun with that. Challenges were always eagerly accepted.

Bond was there for all of it, sometimes playing, sometimes typing, sometimes just watching Q. He disappeared right after the laptop had been delivered and Q didn’t see him until he got home.

Just like before.

It felt good to be back to normal.

 

* * *

 

It had been three months since the shooting and Q stood in front of the full length mirror, looking at himself shirtless. It had nothing to do with vanity. He wasn’t the type and he knew he wouldn’t be crowned Britain’s next male top model. He worked out, but not excessively, and the definition of muscles was just enough not to let him look the cliché of the skinny computer geek.

Physical therapy had been grueling. He had been in pain, he had cursed the therapist, but it had been worth it. The torn and cut muscles had mended, the skin had knitted back together, and he was almost back to his old range of movement. He was allowed heavy lifting again, though cautioned not to strain himself – not a problem in his line of work.

Q branch was running smoothly. His crew had found their old rhythm and the shooting wasn’t mentioned. He found murmurs about what had happened lessening. There were still raging speculations as to how Q had managed to divert Collins from the real accounts, how he had set up the mirrors, how he had called M while bleeding out in a tunnel.

Q would never answer those silent questions. Yes, there were rumbles about him being a preternatural or a genius or just a lot more resourceful than everyone had thought. He had no comments for that either.

Collins had been tried and found guilty on all counts. He had been delivered to a maximum security prison and he would spend the rest of his life in there. No chance of parole.

Now Q had a scar.

A gunshot wound. Ballistic trauma. GSW. Physical trauma sustained by the discharge of a projectile weapon. There were so many descriptions for it and nothing could describe the pain and the near-death experience.

He almost laughed.

No, nothing could describe it and only people who had also been shot could relate.

Like most of the Double-Oh section and a lot of field agents.

He had had a lot of Double-Oh visitors. The moment he had been back on the job, they had conveniently wandered by. There had been hardly any long-winded conversation or hidden inquiries. With them it was straight to the point.

004 had told him that no matter what Bond said or how he always brushed it off, psychological help was truly helpful. Q knew that. He had had a few sessions and it had helped work out his nightmares and get his thoughts into order.

008 had remarked that these kinds of injuries took a while to heal – no matter how quickly 007 was back in the field – and to give himself time. And should he want to talk, 008 was there.

That had floored Q. He had accepted it with a nod and a thank you.

001 hadn’t been in the country in the last six months and when he had called in, Q had assumed it was to request information. Instead he had told the quartermaster he was glad Q was back.

Yes, they all were.

It was flattering and maybe just a little embarrassing.

He had their respect. They had wanted him back at his post.

The scar was still reddish, not yet in the stage of fading into paleness. Q had seen the final results looking at his partner. James had suffered such injuries in the past and some had still been there after rebirth. They were there to stay. Like the evidence of Eve’s miscalculated shot.

Q let his fingers explore the irregular edges. Tissue disruption, the doctors had called it. Forming only a temporary cavity. His skin had mended and only left him with the frayed edges.

There was a sound of someone approaching. Not sneaking up on him, just moving quietly, and still he knew immediately. Like a presence that was recognized by him without looking, an awareness that was complete.

Bond moved behind Q, blunt fingers dragging over the pale skin. He leaned down and kissed one shoulder, a hand settling on his waist. He pressed a gentle kiss into the shallow indention between Q’s shoulder blades, hearing Q’s breath catch a little.

The hand on his waist slid forward and found Q’s gun shot injury, lightly tracing the irregular scar. He had no feeling along those ridges, but Adler had told him it would come back. The nerve cells would regenerate.

Bond curled his arm fully around his waist and pulled him back against his body. Q enjoyed the firmness, the power, the whole sense of his partner, his phoenix. He covered Bond’s hand with his own.

Blue eyes, the color of a frozen lake regarded him from out of the mirror. They made such an unlikely pair. The ruthlessly trained agent, the killer, the destroyer of lives. And the quartermaster. A destroyer of lives in a different way. And still they were so alike; they just fit. They worked. They were each other’s balance.

“I need you,” James murmured, breaking the silence.

“I know.”

And he needed Bond. Not just because he was Q’s anchor. It was so much more. The technopath was only part of Q and the anchor encompassed a lot more than this fraction of his identity.

“Forever.”

He shivered. The voice was hitting something deep inside him, something primal in his own soul. It wasn’t as violent as Bond; it wasn’t as ferocious and deadly in nature. But it was there and it reacted to those words.

Bond’s hand was splayed over his stomach, unmoving, just this firm weight, like the knowledge that sat just as heavily in Q’s mind.

Forever.

It was a long time.

And he was looking forward to it.

Resting his head back against his agent’s shoulder, Q smiled when slightly chapped lips kissed his throat. There was nothing arousing in the gesture, in this scenario. It was just… them. It was being together, intimate, but not driven by carnal pleasure.

“Sounds good to me,” he murmured.

Bond smiled against his neck, the blue eyes reflecting in the mirror; reflecting pleasure, calmness, contentment.

tbc...


	9. Chapter 9

The assignment happened to be in Monaco and Q, who rarely ventured out to deliver mission tech and equipment personally, had flown to Nice without much fuss. He was picked up by a company car and driven to the Cote d’Azur lab, where he checked and rechecked the equipment, then waited for his agent to make an appearance. The lab was a non-descript warehouse in the industrial district of Nice, posing as an international import and export firm of cheap toys coming from China.

Business was booming, it seemed, since trucks were always delivering or picking up crates. No one knew that the contents wasn’t toys. No one knew that everyone working here was an MI6 operative or employee.

Bond had been checked into a hideously expensive hotel in Monte Carlo, posing as a high roller in a high stakes game. He would arrive tonight to begin his mission and it was up to Q to outfit him. He arrived right on time, walking into the warehouse like he owned it.

Q was already waiting. “Welcome to Nice, 007. I take it you had a pleasant flight?”

Bond lifted a corner of his lips into a smile. “Passable, Q. I see you made it without incident.”

Q ignored the little taunt about his supposed fear of flying. He gestured at the man to follow him and Bond did. They walked into an elevator and exited two levels down where the scenery had changed from ‘old, stuffy warehouse’ to ‘high tech lab and garage’. Q ignored the goings-on around him and walked purposefully into a parking garage like area.

He stopped at a table and opened the silver case.

“Your gun, as usual. Personalized, of course.”

“Of course.” Bond checked it with a glee in his eyes that had Q suppress a pleased smile.

“Tracker.” Q held out a tiny tracking device to him.

Bond slid it into his pocket.

“Smartphone. Coded to you. Looks like an ordinary phone, but it can crack any electronic lock in a matter of seconds.”

Bond smiled again, very pleased.

“Watch. You can slip a tracer on your marks and the watch acts as your GPS. The tracers are in this box.” Q held out a cigarette case to him; silver, engraved.

Bond checked it, found cigarettes, and raised an expectant eyebrow.

“The butts are the tracers. You can even smoke one of those and it won’t be destroyed.”

“Cute.”

Q glared at him. Bond smirked.

“These in combination with an app on your phone will patch you into a closed circuit surveillance system.” The quartermaster gave him the glasses Bond had already used on other missions. “Break the lenses…”

“And I’m a dead man?”

Q snorted. “You have five seconds to either fold them back up or take cover. They explode.”

James looked downright ecstatic. Q rolled his eyes.

“Like a child,” he muttered, loud enough for his agent to hear. “Now for something special.”

“Special?”

Q walked over to a partition and pushed it aside. Behind it was a tarp-covered lump. Bond stared at it, trying to look neutral, but Q could see the first slivers of hope and excitement.

“I managed to get this out of the very limited funds M gave me for the project. Please bring it back in one piece, 007.”

He pulled off the tarp.

And it was the first time he saw Bond gape; as much as a man like Bond would ever come close to gaping anyway. The blue eyes lit up with emotions that were hard to define and the agent walked almost reverently around the dark blue car.

“Aston Martin Vanquish,” Q introduced the car. “Customized to your mission, 007. Bullet-proof, undetectable for heat-seeking missiles, misleading laser-guided projectiles and almost invisible to traffic cameras.”

“Almost, Q?” Bond asked, walking around the car like a predator on the prowl.

“I’ll always find you.”

Their eyes met and the blue was almost to drown in. Q refused to smile at the open expression of… something they never talked about.

“You have the standard features, including satellite uplink wherever you are, oxygen tanks, MI6 emergency kit, an additional weapons compartment, and the car is water- and fire-proof.”

Bond reached for the door and, when Q didn’t stop him, touched the handle. The car clicked open. “Personalized?”

“Of course.”

The agent smirked. “Of course.”

“It reads your bio signature, 007. Copying your fingerprints won’t give anyone access. It’s equipped with a remote control and able to navigate to your position through traffic. You have ten different license plates from several countries to choose from.”

“Offensive weapons?”

Q rolled his eyes. “Yes. Laser-guided projectile weaponry, flame throwers and a small missile launcher. Crude but effective.”

“Nice.”

“You would enjoy that, of course.”

Bond grinned and slid into the car.

Q joined him from the passenger side.

“Your bio signs are coded as well?”

“Until you leave, yes. It was my project. Now listen up and pay attention, 007.”

He went over the interior, seeing the child-like glee increase. James was really looking forward to taking the car out for a spin. He pushed a button and the car locked, the windows darkening. The blue eyes fixed on the quartermaster, stopping whatever he had wanted to say next.

Bond leaned over, caught him around the neck, and pulled Q into a kiss. Not just a brief contact of lips against lips, a full-blown, all tongue tonsillectomy that left him breathless and feeling the first thrills of arousal course through him. The preternatural’s eyes were intense, focused only on his partner, making Q acutely aware that they were alone, with no cameras, and no one would expect him to be done explaining the car to James any time soon. When Bond activated the reclining seats, Q knew he was done for.

“Highly unprofessional, 007,” he said when the lithe form slid over him.

Predatory. Hungry. Wanting. Lusting.

“Think of it as a thank you, Q.”

“For what?” he gasped as clever fingers cupped his very interested dick and massaged it gently.

Bond took his mouth into another kiss that had him groan when they separated.

“My new car.”

“It’s not your car…”

Bond bit his neck lightly. “You gave me a car.”

“It’s not…”

“I know M refused to sign the budget for it.”

“So I’d appreciate it if you brought it home, in one piece, with no bullet holes or dents, or missing vital pieces.”

“Can’t make that promise.”

“I know you are capable of it, so make an effort.”

“I think I am right now.”

Q groaned at the bad pun and Bond chuckled against his skin.

But Q hadn’t been idle. He was very much a part of this and he liked where the whole scenario was going. It was a small space and they couldn’t do a lot, but when their hard dicks finally rubbed against each other, he eagerly pushed into the contact. Bond moaned, pushing back, setting a rhythm.

When he finally came, Bond muffled his cry against Q’s neck. He blanketed the younger man, breathing hard, looking into the dilated, brown eyes.

“I bet you do that with everyone who gives you a nifty car,” Q whispered, feeling pleasantly sated.

The kiss was soft, warm, loving. “Only one, Q. Only the one.”

He raked his fingers through the blond hair, smiling a little stupidly. Sometimes simple words caught him off guard because they were accompanied by emotions he hadn’t expected that very moment.

Bond pulled out a handkerchief and cleaned them up, giving Q a last kiss as he zipped him back up.

“Have to go.”

Q smiled. “Yes, you do. Come back in one piece, please, 007.”

The seat was back up, both men looking just a bit more flushed than normal. The agent smoothed down his dress shirt and suit, then flicked a strand of hair out of Q’s eyes.

“I always come back, Q.”

The quartermaster cocked an eyebrow, then climbed out of the car. Bond started the engine and headed for the ramp leading into a tunnel that would exit away from the business district.

He was quite aware what a feat it had been for Q to make this happen. MI6 had a tight budget and agents didn’t get specialized cars unless a mission explicitly called for one. Q had made it happen and the tingle that sent through Bond was pleasant and warm.

 

 

He was in Monte Carlo half an hour later.

 

* * *

 

Gareth Mallory looked at the report sent to him by Joe Adler. The unofficial report that would never make it into any file stored on MI6’s servers.

For one very important reason.

It was dangerous.

Q had recovered rather quickly. According to Adler primary healing was a lot faster than humanly possible and he compared it to Bond’s recovery rate after his injuries. Yes, it had taken weeks, but the shock to the system such an injury and the surgery was, as well as the need for a human body to recover from this, had been rather brief. Three months after the shooting it was as if Q had never had surgery. His blood tests were fine, his physical endurance back to normal. The scar was there, yes. The nerve damage to the skin was just about healed. But everything else was… normal.

M had frowned at the man the first time the doctor had remarked on it.

Now, two months after the incident, he was reading through the unofficial file that existed nowhere anyone would look, and even those who hacked into unfamiliar places wouldn’t find it.

Q was a preternatural by birth. His abilities were his mind. He was a genius, but he was a genius able to access computers with his mind. His abilities were mental, not physical like Bond’s. Now he was displaying advanced healing capabilities. Like his partner.

Adler had no explanation for it. Preternatural abilities had been examined in the past, there had been DNA tests, but nothing conclusive had been found. Bond’s blood tests had been done and redone. As had been Q’s.

Nothing.

If this was something inherent to Q, it was a big coincidence. His partner was a phoenix, who regenerated from death. Someone who recovered from injuries rather quickly and never with any lasting disabilities.

Q had part of those abilities. He recovered without disabilities, with a rather smooth looking scar of a gun shot wound in his side.

Mallory closed the file and studied the pale beige folder.

He would keep a close eye on developments. They weren’t bad developments, just interesting ones. If some part of this connection had enabled Q to mimic the healing rate of his partner, all the better. Those two were an asset Mallory intended to use. They were MI6 specialists, one a field agent, one the quartermaster.

A very dangerous combination.

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t immediately flown back to London. M had contacted him an hour after Bond had picked up the Vanquish. He had requested he stay on location to assist 007 and Q had simply agreed. He knew the mission objective and he had had his doubts that the Double-Oh could get what they needed. Q didn’t doubt Bond’s abilities, but he wasn’t a hacker and their opponent wasn’t stupid.

So the quartermaster arrived in Monte Carlo early in the afternoon. Bond was waiting for him in the hotel lobby, though he didn’t greet him in any way. The agent simply stepped onto the same elevator, with three more hotel guests, and they got out on the same floor.

Q checked the cameras watching the hallways, the doors, the elevator, and decided to take a peek at the hotel’s system within the next hour, just to be on the safe side.

When the hotel room door closed behind him Bond prowled around the room, checking the layout. Q pulled out his smartphone and started a thorough scan for bugs and other unsavory devices.

They both came up clean.

His agent had closed the blinds and now pulled his quartermaster close, lips brushing over his temple, his cheek, then finding his lips.

“Highly unprofessional conduct, 007,” Q murmured, smiling a little when they parted.

Bond smiled unrepentantly.

They stayed together a moment longer, Q enjoying the feel of the lean, hard lines, the strength the preternatural embodied.

“I like having you here,” Bond murmured, lips moving against his ear, hands heavy and warm against Q’s lower back.

“Don’t get used to it. I’m not a field agent.”

“Your predecessor liked going out, delivering tech.”

“I’m also not a mailman or run a delivery service.”

“You’d see the world.”

“I can do that from at home.”

“But not like I do. This is different.”

“Yes, it is. More dangerous,” Q countered.

One large hand rested over his scarred side, gentle pressure against the healed wound.

“No more than at home.”

At home. MI6. Where he had been shot.

They separated and Q turned. He looked into the turmoiled eyes of his phoenix, saw all in there, those emotions achingly clear. Q hoped his own were just as open and from the expression in the pale blue eyes, Bond had understood.

“We should get some rest.”

His agent raised an eyebrow and Q sighed theatrically.

“One track mind.”

“Room’s paid for.”

Yes, it was. All expenses were actually paid for. It was secretly exciting for Q, something new and different, and despite his words, he did enjoy being here.

 

 

In the end he had to confess that a blow-job really did take the edge off things. It also passed the time until later in the evening when Bond would finally get to do his job, coerce the mark, find a way into her home and give Q the necessary access to the files they wanted.

And Q liked hearing the rough whispers, the encouraging moans, as he reciprocated and sucked off his partner until Bond came with a hoarse groan and a shudder.

They showered together and the technopath enjoyed watching his agent getting dressed for the occasion.

Bond raised an eyebrow, shirt hanging open, showing a firm stomach and the smooth chest Q had caressed just an hour ago.

“See something you like?” he teased as he buttoned up the dress shirt.

“Always,” Q replied and pulled on his own shirt.

While he would be tech support, he had to be ready to leave and then blend in. In a place like this, a dark suit and a white shirt would help.

Bond’s appreciative look told him that if not for the mission, more would happen tonight.

But it was a mission. An assignment. It was time to be a professional.

 

 

So there he was, watching through the lenses of the cameras all over the casino, as Bond played and won. He was a very good player and Q had to admire how he handled himself. It was all an act, a charming, smooth act to get close to the target. Bond was perfectly sociable, an actor in a role so deep you couldn’t but believe him. Every line, every gesture, every eye contact was studied and executed to perfection.

Q had set up his small surveillance operation in Bond’s suite. He knew his partner wouldn’t come back here tonight, and probably not in the morning either, especially when he finally had the attention of his mark and started to charm her.

She fell for it.

And she took him with her.

Q used traffic cameras and the tracker in Bond’s suit to follow them on the map. He listened to Bond’s voice as they talked, to her answers, and he knew the agent had her wrapped around his finger.

They ended up in a hideously expensive condo, right where Bond had wanted to be, and Q turned down the audio when Bond took the mark to bed.

But not before he had placed Q’s access to the woman’s computer where it was needed. The tiny electronic device, dubbed ‘flea’ by Q branch, stuck to the computer and Q started his work. The flea was the key into the whole system and cracking the code was child’s play.

At least for someone like Q.

Q understood just what MI6 expected of him. Use his own abilities to get what they needed. That they needed the blueprints of a satellite some power-hungry madman wanted to launch into orbit was one thing. That they were protected by a highly efficient security network based on what could only be described as a rabid, unpredictably violent watchdog program – and please, he could have done better and already had in so many ways – was another.

Tanner’s assessment had been right. Bond wouldn’t have been able to hack into this or establish a stable link.

Someone had to be inside.

That someone had to be a technopath.

It all boiled down to a major migraine that left him breathless, hunched over on his hotel bed, fingers trying to bury into his skull. He might have whimpered or made another embarrassing sound. He might have tried to draw bloody gauges into his scalp. He might have locked himself in and everyone else out.

Q wasn’t aware of much.

Some time later he felt someone in the room with him and that fact alone had him scramble for his gun. He was MI6 trained. He knew how to handle a weapon and his score was perfectly fine.

Why hadn’t the intruder tripped an alarm? Why hadn’t he been aware of them in any way?

The gun came up.

“Q.”

The one word had him stop, blinking at the shadow that coalesced into the well-known form of James Bond.

“007.”

The pain receded like he had swallowed a very effective painkiller. His hand was still steady, had never wavered as it had pointed the gun at a perceived enemy, and the small smile around Bond’s lips was one of pride and approval.

Q found the hotel door locked – how in the world had he broken the lock? – and no one in the room but the two of them.

He lowered the gun.

Bond approached, all lithe muscle and volatile danger. His fingers brushed over Q’s cheek, along his cheekbone, then buried themselves in the dark hair. He lightly massaged the scalp with one hand, the other gently lifting the narrow face to meet Q’s tired eyes.

It was a cool touch. It enveloped him, drew him in, soothed his still raw brain, chasing away the rough edge of exhaustion. Q closed his eyes. For a moment he just needed and James just gave. He felt chapped lips against his own, felt the calloused hands caress his skin and scalp.

“We need to go,” Bond murmured.

“I know.”

He opened his eyes and met the amused twinkle in the glacial eyes. Bond was still operating as an agent and that was perfectly fine. He was under control, too. So far the violence had sparked no adverse reaction and Q was thankful for it.

“Alright then.”

The contact broke as Bond stepped back, but the cool darkness surrounding Q’s overheated brain was still there, balancing him, keeping him functional.

Just then he noticed that he had been inside the program for almost six hours.

Damn.

No wonder he felt so off balance.

He packed his things, quick and efficient. Bond pulled him into a quick hard kiss as they were about to leave the hotel room. Hungry, reassuring, wild, unleashed, and still so much tamer than could be expected. Fire danced in the blue eyes and Q smiled.

He placed a hand flat on the hard chest, pushing him back ever so slightly. Bond moved, but the promise was there.

“Let’s go.”

And then they were gone, the Vanquish sliding almost noiselessly away from the hotel and into traffic.

 

*

 

They went their separate ways in Nice. Q was already booked on the next plane home to London while Bond would wrap up a few loose ends.

And to draw away whoever might be following him.

It was his job.

And he was damn good at it.

The good-bye was as professional as the whole mission had been. No soft smiles, no kisses, no touches.

Q got out of the car with hardly a look back, walking into the departure terminal with firm, decisive steps. He had only his overnight bag and the airline wasn’t exactly MI6 standard. No allocated seats, cheap, mostly tourists.

Using one of MI6’s cover names that wouldn’t raise any flags, Q bought a ticket and paid cash, then went right through customs.

 

 

He was back in London three hours later.

 

* * *

 

He didn’t see Bond again until he walked into Q branch, all polished looks and radiating accomplishment and sex and the rugged charm he was known for. The look he gave one of Q’s assistants as she walked past had the poor woman flush. It was so terribly easy to fall for this man, the quartermaster knew. And Bond used it to his advantage. His bedpartners didn’t regret the adventure.

Sometimes they just ended up dead.

Oh well, it wasn’t happening here, he knew.

Bond was very careful not to leave any more broken hearts at MI6 than strictly necessary, and he had yet to take any of the coyly flirting or hotly flushing ladies to bed.

They weren’t marks.

And he didn’t need them.

Those wintery eyes met Q’s and he let his eyebrows rise a little. Bond’s infuriating smile grew.

“Welcome back, 007.”

“Q,” was the pleasant reply.

Q had landed safe and sound back in London, carrying the top secret data, and he had been debriefed by M personally. His staff was already busy decoding what had been found.

He let his surprise show when he was handed over the equipment. Nothing was missing. Nothing was broken.

“You’ll get a gold star, 007. You’re setting a new record.”

“Anything for my favorite quartermaster.”

The men and women closest to Q’s station were suddenly very immersed in their work. One of the women had red ears from a blush that was creeping up her neck. Bond’s voice held that rough, low rumble that had weakened knees and turned heads often before and always would.

Q refrained from sighing.

James smiled that little crooked smile that spoke of just how aware he was of what he was doing. He always was. This was an act and they both played a role to their admiring public.

“The car?”

“Still in one piece. But you know that already, don’t you?”

Yes, he knew that. Yes, he had received a detailed report. Bond had treated the car with the utmost respect, even if he had kept it a lot longer than he should have, and he hadn’t returned it to the garage. He had parked it at the airport, VIP. There were a few dents and scrapes from an encounter that hadn’t been made official in a report yet.

Q was very interested to hear where they had come from. Bond hadn’t been able to use all the car’s nifty features and, knowing his partner, he was probably heavily disappointed and just itching for an assignment that would a) bring back the car and b) let him blow something up with it.

Right now Q was just glad the Double-Oh had come back in one piece and alive. Dealing with a phoenix reborn was never easy and with the latest events, with Q’s shooting and the protective streak his partner had displayed, Q just knew it would have been worse than ever before.

The quartermaster looked at his agent, who was still hanging around, trying not to admire the sleek lines, the way the dark gray suit accentuated the lean, trained form.

It was hard.

And his underlings weren’t having a lot of success either. At least Q wasn’t openly salivating, like some who were desperately trying not to stare – and failing.

“007?”

“Q?” he replied. Smirking wickedly, the bastard!

“Shouldn’t you head for your debriefing?”

“No.”

He swallowed an irritated sigh. No. Of course not.

He busied himself with filing the return of Bond’s tech and then handed everything to one of his assistants for closer examination, possible repairs, updates and whatnot, and finally storage until the next mission.

Bond had found his way onto the couch, looking for all the world like he belonged down here, and he probably did, Q mused. He had a tablet in hand, going over whatever had caught his interest, and Q knew he wouldn’t be able to get rid of the aggravating man.

Not that he really wanted to.

It was their game and they both enjoyed it.

And it might look like Bond wasn’t doing anything but surf the net, but he was writing his report and tying up loose ends from the mission.

 

 

The debrief was a few hours later and Bond disappeared like a phantom. Some didn’t even see him leave.

Q pulled some overtime and wasn’t surprised to find James waiting for him. They both fell in step with each other, comfortable silence between them, and when Q chose to walk home, Bond didn’t comment.

He simply waylaid him into having a late dinner, which consisted of take out.

“Very suave,” Q remarked, biting into his sandwich.

Bond gave him that half-smile while he unwrapped his own combo. They were sitting on the steps of the National Gallery, watching the early evening traffic of Trafalgar Square.

“And here I thought you might wine and dine me to make up for the lost opportunity in Monaco.”

“You’re not the type.”

“But I’m the type for subs and tea?”

James shrugged elaborately and continued to eat.

Q shook his head in amusement.

It was nice. Nicer than a fancy restaurant.

“Maybe I am.”

It got him one of those quick smiles. “Maybe you are.”

They stayed for a long time, just watching, not talking, letting the world walk by. The food was gone, the drinks empty, but neither man felt inclined to move.

 

 

Finally they did move, walking home to the flat, side by side without being overly close. They rode the elevator to Q’s flat and only when the door closed after them, the security system fully online, did Bond turn and draw his partner into a soft kiss. One hand rested over the place where the scar was, the other was in Q’s hair.

Blue eyes, the color of a wintery sky, regarded him when they separated and Q brought his own hand up to lightly caress James’ cheek.

He knew it would take a while to get this out of the preternatural’s system, this sensation of near-loss, protectiveness and the fierce claim on Q’s soul.

Q could deal with that.

It was what defined them, what made this partnership so interesting. Never boring, never routine, he mused. God forbid it would become routine with James Bond.

The kiss that followed was almost too light, too shy, and still so very much them. Q deepened it, not James. He slid his hands under the suit jacket, felt the smooth fabric of the dress shirt, the warmth underneath, and Bond made a soft sound, a rumble, a growl.

Q looked into those very familiar eyes and saw nothing cold or dangerous, just that emotion, that need, and he smiled.

Me, too, he thought. Me, too.


End file.
